Smashed, Wrecked, Gone
by etaknosnhoj
Summary: Colonial America: A young woman is washed up on the shore with no recollection of who she is. Saving young friends Willow and Xander from the infamous highwayman William the Bloody, she finds people who are willing to help her discover who she is... as w
1. Prologue & Chapter One

**Smashed, Wrecked, Gone**

            Massachusetts, 1761

            The storm lashed the little beach, pelting the sand into massive divots.  The sea heaved in gigantic waves, smashing themselves at the shore and thrashing little bits of driftwood into splinters.

            One wave heaved itself so high it threw its cargo up onto the dunes, where a smattering of sails and splintered deck and a handful of bodies thudded into the flattened grass.

            One of the bodies gave a cough, spat out some seawater, and pulled feebly on the rope about its waist.  It was a young woman, blonde hair plastered to her skin, dress ratted and ruined from the sea.  A gash on her forehead bled copiously down her face.

            She gathered in the rope, but there was nothing on the end of it.  Just sand and seaweed and a bit of torn blue silk.

            The blonde cradled the rope in her arms, sobbing and sputtering.  Another giant wave crashed down on the beach, and a piece of mast flew at her, hitting her head, knocking her deep into the sand.  Her eyes fluttered and closed, and she lay still.

            "You know what I wish?" Willow Rosenberg said as she settled back in the carriage with her best friend.

            "What's that?"

            "That for once I could leave a town without people running after me with pitchforks and flaming braziers."

            "Aw, Will," Xander Harris put his arm around her, "it's not your fault.  I think you're great."

            "Yeah?"  She gave him a hopeful look.  "You're not going to call me a witch, are you?"

            "Of course not.  Just don't turn me into a toad or anything..."

            She rolled her eyes at him, but Xander's teasing made her feel a lot better.  It seemed like the whole of Massachusetts had it in for her.  Wherever they went, one town after another, everyone always seemed to think she was a witch.  Was it her red hair?  Her left-handed writing?  Her unusual knowledge of Socrates and Pliny and her irritation with British rule?

            "I mean, it's not my fault there was a storm.  Just because it happened to break out when I was telling them about The Tempest..."

            "Coincidence," Xander agreed.

            "And there was a shipwreck... Do you think anyone survived?"

            "Probably not.  That was a pretty mean storm."

            Willow nodded disconsolately.  "Maybe there were some British ships in it," she said, hopefully.

            "That's not a very nice thing to say."

            "Well, no, and I don't mean I want anyone to have been hurt, but, you know.  Maybe some tea or something got destroyed.  Some correspondence about making taxes higher.  Something like that."

            Xander, who barely even knew what taxes were, just nodded.  "Maybe we should get some sleep," he said.  "It's a long way to Boston."

            Willow nodded and closed her eyes and laid her head on Xander's shoulder.  She wondered vaguely, as she fell asleep, exactly why it was he hung around with her.  Everywhere they went she got into some kind of trouble but he never blamed her for it.  And he always followed her when she had to leave town.  Did he have any idea how much she adored him for it?

            She eventually fell asleep, and Xander did too, the rocking of the carriage lulling away their exhaustion.  It was hard work, being hated and feared wherever you went.

            And then suddenly, the carriage reared to a halt, rocking violently, throwing Willow and Xander against the side of the carriage as it swung on two wheels, the horses screaming, and there was a shot, a loud report, and then the carriage teetered for a moment, Willow's head smashed against the side wall, and the whole thing lost balance and toppled over, crashing down a steep slope at the side of the road, thrashing into trees and bushes, before coming to a halt at the bottom, half submerged in a freezing stream.

            For a few seconds everything was silent and Xander lay there in a crumpled heap, Willow's body flopped across his.  Her head was lolling and he frantically reached for her wrist and gave out a huge sigh when he felt a pulse.  She was all right.  She'd be okay.

            Now, he just had to figure out how to get them out of the fallen carriage.

            The door was above him and he reached up and flipped it open.  It was dark outside and all he could see were tree branches and the stars.  He reached for Willow, picked her up, and pushed her out of the carriage, holding onto her wrist so she wouldn't fall as he climbed after her.

            Sitting on top of the carriage, he paused to catch his breath and try to wake Willow, when suddenly he heard someone start clapping.

            "Well done," said a dry, sarcastic voice.  "You've just saved me having to haul your worthless carcass out of there."

            Clutching Willow tightly, Xander turned his head.  In the moonlight he couldn't make out details very clearly, but he saw a man on a horse, the animal as black as his rider's clothes.  Moonlight glinted off leather and the unnatural whiteness of the highwayman's hair.

            And off his gun.

            "Now be a good chap," he had the flat accent of an Englishman who hadn't grown up in the colonies, "and get off there.  Take your lady with you and keep her quiet while I search the box."

            Xander looked down at the ground below.  It was quite a way to jump, and it was dark and soggy from the recent storm.

            "Uh, how about I stay right here, and you pass on your merry way?" he suggested.

            The highwayman didn't seem impressed.

            "I don't think so," he said.  "You just-"

            And then he suddenly recoiled as something hit him in the chest.  "Bloody hell!"

            Xander stared around, but he couldn't see anyone.  Another rock flew at the highwayman, hitting his shoulder this time.  The man fired off a shot, but the report had hardly died away before a third rock flew at him, and hit his head this time, and he toppled form his horse, his gun falling to the ground.

            Xander left Willow where she was and jumped off the carriage, snatching up the gun and holding it over the fallen highwayman.  He wasn't moving, but Xander didn't have the heart to kill him.  He'd never done it before.  He just wanted to make sure no one was going to come after him and Willow when they stole this man's horse and got the hell out of there.

            He was just reaching up for Willow when he caught something from the corner of his eye.  A woman, her hair tangled and loose about her shoulders, her dress heavy with water, her eyes wild and darting.  She was venturing forward, holding several heavy rocks in her apron.

            "Hey," Xander said.  "Did you - did you throw those at him?"

            She nodded.

            "Thanks.  He was going to rob us."

            She looked up at Willow, dropped her weapons and started climbing up the wheel to get to the girl.

            "Hey, be careful, that carriage isn't very sturdy," Xander said, but she'd already got to the top and was checking over Willow.  She shook the red-head by the shoulders, quite vigorously, desperately, when Willow coughed and woke up, hugged the girl to her.

            "Will," Xander said, relieved, "you're alright..."

            "Yes," she said, looking over the blonde's shoulder and mouthing, 'Who's this?'

            Xander shrugged.  "Can you get down?"

            The blonde heard him and pushed Willow gently to the edge.  She made catching motions to Xander, and when Willow jumped, he tried to do as he was told.  Unfortunately he'd forgotten how much she weighed and both of them fell to the dirty forest floor.

            The blonde jumped down, quite agile, and ignored them, going over to the fallen highwayman.  She kicked his ribs and he groaned a little.  Looking around, she found some rope on his saddle and used it to tie his hands behind his back and lash his ankles together.  Then she heaved him onto the back of the horse.

            "Hey," Xander said, standing and brushing leaf mould off him, "can I be rude and ask who you are?"

            She looked at him, opened her mouth, then shut it again, shaking her head.

            "Fine," Willow said doubtfully, loosening her trunk from the back of the carriage.  "Uh, but thanks for rescuing us."

            The blonde woman didn't seem to have heard.  She was looking up the slope at the dark road above.  Securing their attacker to the black horse's saddle, she started up the slope, leading the horse behind her.

            Willow and Xander looked at each other, grabbed their luggage, and followed her.

            At the top of the slope they found the carriage driver dead and one of the horses on its side, unable to get up.  Willow knelt by it and felt its right foreleg: comprehensively broken.  She looked up sadly at Xander and shook her head.

            The blonde wordlessly took the pistol from Xander and shot the horse in the head.  Willow buried her face in her friend's shoulder: she'd known there was nothing to be done for the animal, but did this little blonde girl have to be so brutal?

            The other horse was fine - shaken and nervous, but unharmed.  The blonde mounted the black horse and gestured for Willow and Xander to get on the chestnut carriage horse.

            "But, we have luggage," Willow began, and the woman looked annoyed.  She opened Willow's small trunk and took out a couple of plain dresses and some underwear.  She stuffed it into the saddlebags of the black horse, then did the same with Xander's spare clothes.  Giving them a look of Happy Now? she got back onto her horse.

            The blond man was stirring.  She smacked his head smartly with the butt of his own pistol, and kicked the black horse into life.

            Xander and Willow had no choice but to once again follow her.

Chapter One

            They rode up to the farmhouse just before dawn, when everything was quiet.  A little too quiet - there were no animals in the fields and no horses in the stables.  The farm didn't look especially prosperous, but there was vegetables growing in the plot behind the small house and a lamp burning in one of the upstairs windows.

            Xander hammered on the door.  "Hello?  We need some help.  Hello?  Is there anyone home?"

            The door was unlocked.  He pushed at it, then looked back at Willow, who stood there shivering.  She shrugged.

            "Try it," she said.

            Yeah, Xander thought, it would be me trying it.  Going into an empty, dark house all by myself... Yeah, it'd be me.

            But the little blonde woman jumped off the black horse, handed the reins to Willow, and entered the house ahead of Xander.  She didn't seem afraid, peeking into all the downstairs rooms and then starting up the stairs.  Xander followed her cautiously, leery of leaving Willow alone with the unconscious highwayman.  What if he woke up?  But then, what if there was something horrible waiting up here?

            Not that the blonde needed protecting, so much, but it was the thought of the thing.  Chivalry and all that.

            She pushed open a door and sucked in her breath.  Xander, dreading the worst, peered over her shoulder, and immediately wished he hadn't.  There was a dead man and woman lying in the bloody sheets, both with slit throats.

            He backed out, dragging in deep breaths.

            The blonde woman tried the other doors.  She looked in both, and then shook her head at Xander.

            "No one?"

            She pointed at the second door.  Xander steeled himself and looked in: there was a young man lying on the ground with a big hole in his chest.  The third room was empty, but there was blood all over.

            "Can we go now?" Xander asked, breathing heavily, afraid he was going to be sick.

            She nodded and went back down the stairs.  Xander followed gratefully - but instead of getting back on her horse, she went around the back of the house and started searching the barn.  She came out with a couple of shovels and handed one to Xander.

            "All dead?" Willow said as Xander finished telling her.

            "Most definitely."  He looked at the shovel in his hand.  "Oh no..."

            The blonde nodded and started digging under one of the oaks nearby.  Xander, wishing with everything he had that he'd never got up this morning, handed his hat and coat to Willow, checked the bindings on the highwayman, and started digging.

            It was fully daylight by the time they'd finished burying the three bodies.  Willow had helped a little with the digging and said a short prayer as Xander and the strangely strong blonde woman tipped the occupants of the house in.

            Xander found an axe, hacked off a tree branch and fashioned a small cross to mark each of the graves.

            "That's bloody touching," came a voice from behind them, and all three whipped round to see the highwayman trying to get to his feet.

            The blonde woman got out the pistol from the front of her bodice and aimed it at him.

            "Hey, that's mine!"

            "And you aimed it at us," Xander said.  "Were you going to rob us?"

            The highwayman stared at them.  "Well, yeah," he said, as if it was obvious, "hello, highwayman?  I'm William the Bloody."

            He paused expectantly, and Willow and Xander exchanged looks.

            "Uh, that's nice," Willow said uncertainly.

            "You haven't heard of me?" William the Bloody said.

            "Um, no.  Should we have?"

            "I'm sodding infamous!"

            "Oh.  Sorry," Willow said.

            "And now you're our prisoner," Xander said.

            "No, actually, he's hers," Willow whispered, staring at the blonde woman, who had not taken her eyes off the highwayman.

            She stared at him a bit, then handed the pistol to Willow, who looked at it like it was a snake, and strode over to William.  He sneered at her, and she punched him in the face.  He flew onto his back.

            "Hey!  What the bloody hell was that for!"

            She put one foot on his stomach as she reached down and untied the rope around his ankles.  She made a loop and put it around his neck, then used it to haul him to his feet and inside the house.

            Willow and Xander once more followed uncertainly.

            Inside, they found William yelling loudly at the silent blonde woman as she tied him to a chair in the kitchen.  Willow peeked inside a pot by the fire and sniffed.  Some soup, reasonably fresh.

            "You hungry?" she asked Xander, who nodded eagerly.  Willow started looking for bowls, then she noticed the blonde woman standing there, watching her.  "Would you like some soup?" Willow asked.  "I think it's pumpkin."

            She looked confused.  Eventually she shook her head, pulling at her heavy, sodden skirts.

            "Looks to me like she wants a bath," William said, and all three of them looked over her tangled hair, filthy dress and skin that had been blackened by dirt and sweat.

            "Hey," Willow said, "how about you take care of our prisoner," she grinned at Xander, "and us girls will go and see if we can find a bath?  You can borrow some clothes," she offered the blonde, who hesitated, then nodded.

            "Oh, great," Xander said sourly, hefting the heavy pistol.  "You get all naked and clean together and I get stuck here with the guy who tried to kill us."

            "Damn right," the highwayman said.  "I'd have succeeded, too, if it hadn't been for-" he broke off, looking confused, and Xander smirked.

            "For the tiny little scarecrow taking a bath upstairs?  Yeah, that's right.  She smashed a rock on your head.  Tiny little girl.  Who's a big scary highwayman now?"

            William rattled his chair angrily, and Xander took a few steps back.

            Willow heated up some water and filled the little metal bath she found in one of the bedrooms.  She and Xander had stripped the beds of their bloody linen and burnt it, and the scent of the bonfire drifted in through the windows as she tested the heat of the water and chucked in the bar of soap she'd found in the kitchen.

            "Not exactly French luxury but enough to get you clean," she said cheerfully to the blonde girl, who didn't reply.  "Hey, can you talk?  I thought maybe you were foreign or something but you seem to understand what we're saying."

            The blonde looked at her for a while, looking like she was trying to say something, and then she gave up.

            "Lost your voice?" Willow offered helpfully, and the blonde hesitated, then nodded.

            "Okay.  Well, so long as we understand each other.  I'm gonna go and get some clean clothes, so why don't you strip off and get in that water before it gets cold, and I'll be right back?"

            She left the room, and the blonde woman regarded the steaming water.  She dipped her finger in and closed her eyes.  Hot water was good.

            She pulled at the catches on the bodice of her dress and unhooked the heavy gown from the printed panel, called a stomacher, pinned to her corset.  She unfastened the drawstrings of her petticoats and the padded roll around her hips that had held the skirt out.  Then she removed the stomacher and unhooked the corset, taking in a big, grateful breath.  Her chemise and stockings were still very damp, torn and ragged like the rest of her clothes, she'd lost her shoes at some point and her feet were bleeding.  They stung when she stepped into the water, but she ignored the pain and sank deep down, warm for the first time she could remember.

            When Willow came back in, she found the blonde girl asleep in the bath, and tiptoed around picking up her clothes and setting them to dry on a rack set before the fire.  Some items, like her clocked stockings, were ripped beyond repair.  It was a shame, Willow thought, because they looked like they'd once been very pretty.

            Around the girl's neck was a locket with a pretty design on it, and sewn into the lining of her skirts was a purse with some money in it.  Willow frowned and woke the girl up, saying, "Do you want me to help you with your hair?"

            She looked frightened for a second or two, and then nodded, letting Willow lather up her tangled hair, rinse it out with water from a jug, and try to brush out the tangles.

            "Your clothes are kind of wrecked," Willow said, "but my spare dress will probably fit you.  I don't have any spare stays though, I'm afraid, so we'll have to wash yours out and wait for them to dry."

            The blonde woman pointed to a chest by the bed, and it took Willow a moment to realise what she meant.

            "You think there might be something you can wear in there?"

            She nodded, and while the blonde got out of the bath and dried herself off, Willow opened the chest and found several woollen dresses of reasonable quality, a few sets of underwear and two sets of stays.

            She held a cotton-covered corset up triumphantly.  "You want help getting dressed?"

            When she'd helped the other girl get dressed in one of her own dresses, a pretty green one with a little bit of lace on the front, Willow washed herself and sponged off her dress, putting it to dry with the other clothes, which smelled strongly of the sea.  She put on her other dress, which was blue with white stripes, and the two girls helped each other put their hair up.  Willow knew the girl must have grown up with a sister, because she was too well-dressed to be a maid, and she knew a lot about helping someone else dress and do her hair.

            Her blonde locks curled slightly, and Willow just tied them back with a ribbon before tucking her own red hair under a cap.

            "You look very pretty," she told the blonde, and showed her the mirror above the mantelpiece.  She watched as the other girl stepped forward and touched her reflection, her face, her hair, her dress.  "You want something to eat?"

            The blonde nodded, and they went downstairs.

            Xander was eating soup, glaring at William, who glared back from his chair.

            "Check out m'lady," Xander whistled, kneeling before the blonde and kissing her hand.  She blushed and even smiled a little.  Without her coating of grime and the stink of seaweed, she was very pretty, petite and curvy in all the right places.  "Will, no offence, but that dress looks sooo much better on her."

            "None taken," Willow said, shrugging.  "There's still some water if you want to wash?"

            Xander nodded and handed her the pistol.

            "What's this for?"

            Xander nodded at William.  "Mr. Bloody there?"

            "I don't think we'll need it," Willow said, looking at William who was staring at the blonde girl.  Xander grinned and left the room, and Willow waved her hand at William.

            "Are you awake there?"

            He stared some more at the blonde girl.  "That's the wretch who aimed my gun at me?"

            "Cleans up nice, doesn't she?"

            He nodded, looking dazed.  "Who is she?"

            "No idea.  Won't say a word.  Don't know if she can.  She understands us, though.  Came out of nowhere to rescue me and Xander."

            "Xander?  The whelp?"

            "He's not a whelp.  Don't insult my friends while I'm holding a gun."

            William didn't look afraid.  "And who are you?"

            She paused for a few seconds, then figured it didn't really matter.  "Willow Rosenberg.  And I don't appreciate you trying to rob me.  Us."

            "'Us'?  What is he to you?  A 'friend'?" William sneered.

            "Damn right he's my friend.  Since we were tiny children.  His parents died when he was small and he lived with us.  And then my parents, well, they died a couple of years back.  Yellow fever.  I tried to help them but..."

            "Very sad," William said.  "Gimme some soup."

            "I will not!" Willow said.  "You don't deserve any, on account of you trying to rob our coach and getting beaten by a girl," she beamed at the blonde, who gave an uncertain smile in return, and then a longing look at the soup.

            Willow scooped some out into bowls for herself and the other girl.

            "So," William eyed up the blonde appreciatively, checking out her cleavage above the low-cut dress.  Willow wore a kerchief to fill in the low décolletage, but somehow it had looked wrong on this girl.  "You got a name?"

            She ignored him.

            "Just want something to call you, love."

            "I told you," Willow aimed a kick at him, "she doesn't speak."

            "Just how I like 'em."  William grinned lazily, and Willow forced herself to remember that he was a very bad man.  Just because he was one of the sexiest creatures she'd ever seen, didn't mean she should let down her guard.  In fact, it meant quite the opposite.  "We should give her a name."

            "We can't name her."

            "Why not?  Gonna keep calling her Blondie?  Goldilocks?"

            Willow's lip curled.  "We could call her... Joan."

            "Joan?" William scoffed.  "That's not a name."

            "Hey," Xander said from the doorway, coming in dressed in a clean shirt, waistcoat and breeches, "that was my mother's name."

            "Then your mother must have been a boring bint."

            Xander went for him, but Willow held him back and William laughed.

            "Why don't we sit down and think of a name," Willow suggested.  "All of us.  Except you," she glared at William, who shrugged.

            "Well, where did she come from?" Xander asked, sitting down at the table.

            "You saw her first," Willow said.

            "She just appeared and started chucking rocks at our fearless highwayman friend," Xander looked over William's ropes, "I mean, our prisoner here."

            "Only so long as you're awake," William said.  "I'll kill you in your bloody sleep."

            The blonde girl turned and fixed green eyes on him, and he fell silent.

            "How about Elizabeth?" Xander suggested.

            "I don't know.  It seems a little... proper, for someone like her.  Maybe... I don't know... How about Hippolita, the Amazon Queen, from Shakespeare's-"

            "Perdita," William said suddenly, and the blonde turned to look at him.

            "Perdita," Willow frowned.  "A Winter's Tale?"

            "Perdita," Xander tried the name out on his tongue.  It was odd, but he liked the sound of it.  If only someone else had thought of it.

            "Means 'Lost One'," William said.  "Looks pretty lost to me."

            Willow regarded the girl.  "What do you think?  Would you like to be Perdita?"

            She looked them all over warily.  Then she shrugged and reached for more soup.

            "Perdita it is," Willow smiled, and William looked pretty pleased with himself.

            _Author's note:  Yes, I know, it's terribly bad of me to start a new fic when I'm already in the middle of one and I never, erm, quite got around to doing anything on one of my others… but I just had this idea and the thought of Spike in bucket boots and a big white shirt was just too much to resist…_


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

            "I don't know, Xander, there's still something very odd going on here.  Why is she so strong?  Did you see her?  She picked William up and put him on that horse."

            "Well, maybe she's a farm gal.  Remember that girl, uh, Faith?  Worked on her dad's farm and boy, was she strong..." Xander's eyes misted over nostalgically.

            Willow bashed his arm.  They were in the dark, empty parlour, having left William tied to his chair in the kitchen.  The newly named Perdita was asleep upstairs on the only bed to have not been covered with blood - the boy's.  Willow and Xander had decided that he'd probably heard his parents being killed and come to help, before he was shot in the chest.  As for the third bed... There was blood all over it, and the sheets were tangled and trailing on the floor, but there was no body to match it.  They'd checked everywhere.

            "And there's something else," Willow said.  "When I was washing her hair I found this big cut on her face - I got soap in it and everything but she hardly seemed to notice.  And there's a big bump on the back of her head..."

            "So she got clobbered, but I still don't..."

            "There have been cases of people getting hit on the head and when they wake up they've gone mute or something.  Or maybe what happened to her was so traumatic she's too shocked to speak."

            "You noticed she smelled all seaweedy?"

            Willow nodded.  "Maybe she was part of that shipwreck."

            "I saw some of that wreckage, Will, no one could have escaped it."

            "You got a better idea?"

            They looked over the table at each other.

            "No."

            Next door, William listened in on their conversation anxiously.  He needed them to both fall asleep before he could make his move.  Perdita had tied his ropes securely, but William had seen a meat cleaver hanging above the fire and just, only just, managed to half-stretch up to nudge it to the floor while they were upstairs seeing to Perdita.

            He laughed to himself as he worked at the ropes wrapped around his wrists.  It was so obvious the whelp fancied Perdita.  His mind wasn't on the little Jewess at all  - although she definitely had it bad for him.

            So the Jewess fancied the whelp, and the whelp fancied Perdita.  Wouldn't it just be delicious if Perdita fancied William?

            "Just like Shakespeare," he said to himself, and the final thread of the rope broke free.  Oh, thank God.  Wriggling his sore arms, William stretched them round and unfastened the knots holding his torso to the chair.  Maybe Perdita knew how to tie a man up, but the other two were complete idiots to leave him alone in a room with a lot of sharp implements.

            He freed his ankles, stood up and stretched.  It was damn cold in here, after the sun had gone down and all the warmth of the day had left the stone-floored kitchen, and he was glad he still had his tall boots and long leather greatcoat on for warmth.  He straightened out his shirt cuffs, ran his hands through his pale hair.  Nancy-boy Xander had his hair in a silly velvet queue, but William just had a leather toggle holding his back.  No dandy, him.  Besides, he needed a trademark.  Or two.  His caped overcoat was one, his hair another.  He might gather a few more along the way, if he could be arsed.

            He peeked into the parlour and saw Willow and Xander asleep on the sofa, arms around each other.  To say nothing was going on between them, they sure were close.  He closed the door, praying that it wouldn't squeak, then made his way up the stairs to the only room with a closed door.

            Perdita lay asleep in the middle of the big bed, hair spread around her like a golden blanket, covers thrashed to the floor.  She'd taken off the restricting dress and in its place wore a short shift that showed the outline of her breasts and hips and legs.

            William placed the meat cleaver on the table by the bed and silently shrugged off his coat.  He was not, by nature, a rapist.  He told himself that all he wanted to do was talk to her.  Hold her.  Kiss her.  Feel those curvy little thighs around his waist, her little breasts heaving against his chest-

            She frowned and moaned something in her sleep, and William's eyebrows moved up.  So she could actually make a noise.  Hmm.  That could be a problem.

            William's hand hovered over her body, a hair's breadth from her skin, tracing the outline of her delicious curves.  He touched her hair, the lovely golden strands like silk under his fingers, and he marvelled at the change in her.  This morning she'd been a terrifying monster - dirty and smelly, her hair almost dreadlocked with dirt, her eyes flashing dangerously, almost insanely.

            Was it weird that he'd wanted her even then?

            He touched her lips with his fingertips and she sighed, her mouth opening just slightly, an invitation to William, who couldn't help himself.  He reached down and touched his mouth to hers, tasting her lips with his tongue, wrapping strands of her glorious hair about his fingers, touching her shoulder and suddenly realising that she had a knife pressed against his throat.

            "Get the hell away from me," she said in a low, raspy voice, "or I'll bloody kill you."

            William stared at her.  "I thought you didn't talk!"

            "I found something to say."  She pushed him away and William, mindful of the sharpness of her blade, sat up, hands raised.

            "Who are you?"

            She ignored him.  "If you ever touch me again I will cut you apart piece by piece.  Starting," she flashed the knife down to his crotch, "right here."

            "Okay, all right, point taken," William tried to move back again, the knife once more at his throat.

            "What did you do here?"

            "Do?  I didn't do anything," he said cautiously.

            "To the people who lived here.  The ones we buried."

            "I didn't do anything!  God, woman, just because I'm a daylight robber, doesn't mean I'd just walk in and kill people for no reason."

            Her eyes flickered to the meat cleaver not far away.  "What was that for?"

            "Protection."

            "Yours, or mine?"

            He looked at her, her steady green eyes, her tumbling blonde locks, and felt a wave of desire.  "Who are you?"

            A flash of uncertainty crossed her face.  "That's not important.  Did you hurt Xander and Willow?"

            "Friends of yours?"

            The knife pricked his skin.  "Did you hurt them?"

            "No.  No!  They're asleep downstairs.  You can check if you like."

            "And let you escape?"

            "Why are you keeping me here?"

            "You said yourself.  You're an infamous highwayman.  I could kill you right now and probably get a reward for it."

            He regarded her steadily, wondering if she knew her left breast was almost exposed by her gaping chemise.  "So why don't you?"

            "Because there's been enough death here for one day.  Those people were killed last night - the blood was still fresh."

            He nodded.  "Whoever did it could be coming back."

            "Why?  They took anything of worth.  This was a prosperous farm but there's no livestock, no money anywhere, not even any plate on the sideboard."

            "Then how do you know it was prosperous?"

            "There are three bedrooms but only three bodies - the girl was gone-"

            "What girl?"

            "The other room.  There are women's things in it.  Dresses like a young woman would wear.  She had dark hair," Perdita touched her own golden locks, "I could see it on her hairbrush."

            "Where do you think she went?" William asked, imagining reaching out and kissing her bare shoulder, brushing her hair aside, putting his lips to her skin and tasting the faint saltiness he knew would be lingering there...

            "I imagine they took her.  The sort of bandits who would murder the occupants of a house and take anything of value would probably be quite happy to take a young girl with her.  Her clothes were pretty," Perdita said dreamily, "most of them were work clothes but she had some pretty frocks too.  She was a pretty girl."

            "You're a pretty girl," William said softly, and her attention snapped back to him.

            "And you are a bandit."

            "I'm a highwayman," he corrected.  "I don't make cowardly attacks on undefended homes."

            "No, you attack undefended stagecoaches instead."

            "A man's got to make his living."

            "He could try doing it legally."

            "Yeah," William gave her one of his best lazy smiles, "but how much fun would that be?"

            Perdita narrowed her eyes at him.  "Mr. - do you have a real name?"

            "William's the one I was christened with."

            "I can't call you William."

            "Why not?"  He cocked his head at her and imagined sliding that chemise down an inch or two so expose her little pink nipple... He could already see it was tightening into a delicious little nub, it would taste so sweet-

            "It's too familiar.  And it doesn't suit you."

            "Doesn't it?"

            "No.  William is a cultured name and you," she sneered at him, "are not cultured."

            He gave her a slow smile, and when he spoke again his voice had lost the rough edge he'd always used before, and instead sounded polished, careful - cultured.  "'Thou dearest Perdita, with these forced thoughts I prithee darken not the mirth o'th'feast.  Or I'll be thine, my fair'-"

            "Stop," Perdita said through clenched teeth.  "What was that?"

            "Shakespeare.  The Winter's Tale.  He was a William, too, you know."

            "I have heard of him," Perdita lied.  "Are you telling me your name is Shakespeare?"

            He laughed softly at her confusion.  She'd no idea at all what he was talking about.  "No, love, not Shakespeare.  If you don't like William you could call me Will?"

            She shook her head.

            "What's your real name?"  William asked.

            Again, nothing.

            "We called you Perdita because we didn't know your real name."

            "'We'?  You're not allied to them.  I saw you trying to rob them!  You would have killed them."

            "Probably not," William said, "but then again, I might have."  He was enjoying her distress.  It made her bosom heave deliciously.  "Is that what you do, love?  You like to help people out?  Like those charity girls?  Is that your game?"

            Perdita was silent.

            William chewed thoughtfully on his lip.  She'd lowered the knife, that was good, although he knew better than to make a move on her so soon.

            "What about that cut?" he asked, lifting a hand, which she waved away with the knife.  "On your face.  And there's a bump on your head.  What happened to you?"

            Nothing.

            "Did someone hit you?  Attack you?  A highwayman.  What did he look like?  I'll probably know him and-"

            "Not a highwayman," Perdita said quietly.  She looked up.  "What would you have done?  Told him where I am so he could finish the job?"

            Smashed his bloody brains out, William was astonished to hear himself thinking, but he said, "You said it wasn't a highwayman."

            "So it wasn't."

            "Then who?"  He scrutinised her.  "A man.  Your husband?"

            She shook her head.  He'd noticed she wasn't wearing any rings - but it was nice to have it confirmed.

            "Father.  Brother.  Who hit you?"

            "No one hit me."

            "Then you fell?  You don't strike me as the clumsy type."

            "I - I'm not..."

            "So then what happened?"

            Perdita's eyes were on her hands, playing with the little knife.  "I don't remember," she mumbled.

            William said nothing for a while, watching her, thinking.  The blood on her face, her sodden clothes, her silence and her fear.  She'd been trying to cover it with anger or violence or whatever, but she was afraid, he could tell.  And she was desperately uncertain.

            "What don't you remember?" he asked gently, and the tone of his voice seemed to encourage her.

            "Any of it."

            "How you got hurt?"

            "Anything."

            "Perdita," William said, "what's your name?"

            She shook her head.

            "Where are you from?"

            Nothing.

            "How did you come to be on the Boston road in the middle of the night?"

            "I - I followed the river..."

            "From where?"

            "The sea."  She shivered and drew her knees up to her chest and William had to fight a sudden impulse to reach out and cuddle her.

            "Why were you at the sea?"

            "I don't know."  She touched the cut on her forehead.  "I woke up and I - there was debris and, and bodies, and I..."

            William remembered the fierce storm that had hit the shore.  He remembered talk of a shipwreck, with no survivors.

            Except, maybe...

            "A shipwreck?" he asked her.

            "I don't know.  I don't remember."  Suddenly her head shot up, startling William, who hadn't realised how close he'd got to her.  "If you tell anyone I'll kill you," she said fiercely.  "I swear I'll kill you."

            He held up his hands.  "Not a word, love."

            "And don't call me your love.  I am not your love."

            Belatedly, the idea occurred to William that he could have tricked her into thinking she was... If only he'd realised before that she had no idea who she was.  Dammit.

            "I won't say anything," he promised.

            "I don't think I can trust you."

            "What have I done to you?"

            "If I hadn't been armed you would have - you'd have-"

            "I don't think you being armed would have any bearing on that," William smiled at her.  "I can't see anyone making you do something you don't want to.  Unless," he looked down then back up through his lashes, "you want to?"

            "I'd rather throw myself back in the sea," Perdita snapped, and William smiled.

            "All right.  Until you change your mind," he said, and made to get off the bed.

            "Where are you going?"

            "Leave milady to sleep."

            "While you run away?  William the Bloody, you're going nowhere.  You could kill my friends-"

            "Friends now, are they?"

            She narrowed her eyes.  "More than you are."  She got up and pulled the top sheet off the bed and pushed him against the bed head.  William let her, not at all disturbed by her manhandling of him.  In fact, he was rather getting used to being tied up by this woman, and not in a bad way.

            She used the sheet to tie his wrists to the head of the bed, and William looked down at her with sleepy eyes.  "Are you going to leave me here all night?"

            Perdita got off the bed and headed for the door.  She said nothing as she left, but she was back five minutes later with the pistol in one hand and William's former ropes in the other.  She tied him up properly, her knots firm, his wrists fastened to the head of the bed and his ankles to the foot.  Then she carefully loaded the pistol with powder and shot and placed it by her side of the bed.

            Then she pulled the covers over herself and lay down and closed her eyes.

            William went to sleep entertaining himself with thoughts of this delicious little minx waking him up in very naughty ways.


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

            Perdita didn't go to sleep for hours.  She tried as hard as she could to remember anything before she'd woken up on that beach, but nothing came.  Tears leaked from her eyes in utter frustration.  It was ridiculous.  Why couldn't she remember?  She must have parents, siblings, friends.  A home.  There must be people who missed her.  Her dress had been of reasonable quality before the storm had ruined it, so her background couldn't have been that bad.

            And then there were the wounds on her head.  And not just her head - her dress had been torn in several places and her skin had bled from salt-encrusted wounds.  She'd been careful to keep Willow from seeing them.

            Ah, yes, Willow.  The little red-haired Jewess and her nervous, jocular friend.  See, I can remember the word jocular, Perdita thought in frustration, why nothing else?  What is my name?  I must have a name!

            Lost One.  Well, that seems to be me.  No name, no past.  I suppose that's something a few people would be grateful for.  I suppose William the Bloody might be - but then, he seems to enjoy his notoriety.

            She turned her head and looked at him.  His chest was rising and falling and she was pretty sure he was asleep.  He had the look of a soldier, she thought, but she wasn't sure what made her think that.  His body was very lean, all bone and muscle, not a single ounce of fat anywhere.  His face was all sharp angles and hollows, his cheekbones devastatingly high, his eyes hard.  A scar sliced through his left eyebrow - it was very dashing.  Only his mouth had any softness, and Perdita knew firsthand that it didn't just look soft.  It felt divine, too.

            It was disgusting, really - not just that he'd tried to, to _touch_ her like that, but that she'd very nearly responded.  Thank God she'd had that knife under her pillow.

            If he ever touches me again, Perdita thought, I'll bloody kill him.  I know I will.

            Willow woke when the sun came through the parlour window, Xander asleep beside her on the sofa, and it took her a few moments to realise where she was and what was going on.  She reached for the pistol that had been tucked down the back of the sofa and panicked when it wasn't there.

            "Xander," she shook him awake, "I can't find it."

            "Wha'?"

            "The pistol!  I was going to check on William but I can't find the pistol.  God, do you think he has it?"

            Xander's eyes darted from Willow to the door.  "I'll go check," he said, as manfully as he could, and hesitated for a long time.

            "Want me to come with?" Willow asked, trying to hide her smile.

            "Sure, if you like.  Safety in numbers, I guess..."

            They crept out of the door and down the passage to the kitchen.  The house wasn't big enough to have the kitchen separate from the rest like in some big places, it wasn't in the basement and didn't have to be reached by some back passage.  Here the kitchen was the centre of the house.

            And it was empty.

            "Perdita," Xander said, and Willow nodded, and they dashed upstairs, flung open the door to Perdita's room, and pulled up short when they saw her curled around the highwayman, his black waistcoat unfastened, stock loosened, hands and feet both tied to the bed.

            "Riiight," Willow said doubtfully, and Perdita's eyes slammed open, as did William's, and he looked vastly amused to see them standing there, looking so shocked.

            He stretched luxuriously and cocked an eyebrow at Perdita, who looked horrified.

            "Sleep well, pet?  Don't mind the ropes, she likes to get kinky."

            "Uh, maybe we should go," Willow said to Xander.  "Xander?  I think you're drooling..."

            Perdita, sat up, pulling the covers up to her chest, which was rather exposed by her thin little shift.

            "It's not - I mean - I was just-" she began, and Willow and Xander's faces registered new shock.

            "You talked!"

            "She talked!"

            "She can hear you!"

            "I know!"

            William watched them, smiling delightedly.

            "Oh," Perdita said, blushing, "erm, yes.  I, er, found my voice..."

            Xander raised his eyebrows at William.  "And he helped you find it?"

            "I tried," William said modestly, and Perdita thumped him.

            "He came up here and I didn't want him to escape so I tied him up," she explained, and gestured to the pistol.  "I thought he might have hurt you, but you look alright..."

            "We're fine," Willow said.  "When did you start talking?"

            "Um, last night.  I think I was in shock," she said, and took a breath as she prepared to tell them the story she'd made up last night.  "After my carriage was robbed."

            "Oh no, you too?"

            "Not by him?" Xander pointed to William, who frowned.

            "You don't think I'd remember her?"

            "No, by someone else.  Masked.  I didn't see their faces.  They killed everyone," Perdita said, "I was lucky to escape."

            "You were," Willow nodded vigorously.  "Were you - were you with anyone?  Family, or, or friends...?"

            Perdita shook her head quickly.  "No.  I was alone.  I was, er, going to, er, meet with someone.  But I didn't want to, so, you know.  Maybe it's better this way.  Erm," she pushed her hair out of her eyes, "can I ask you not to say you've seen me?"

            "Not a problem since they don't know who you are, love," William pointed out, and she bashed him again.

            "We should get some breakfast and try to figure out what we're going to do," Willow said.

            "Do?"

            "Well, don't you want to find out what happened here?  And surely Perdita wants to get back home?"

            "Yes," William said, looking up at her, "surely she does."

            "I think it's best if I lay low for a while," Perdita said.  "Those bandits could be looking for me."

            "Do you have a real name?"

            "I'd prefer not to use it.  It's safer that way," Perdita said, and Willow nodded.

            "Good thinking.  Do you need any help getting dressed?"

            "No, I'll be fine.  Thank you, Willow, and Xander too.  For all your help."

            They nodded, pleased, and left the room.  Perdita turned to William.

            "That was not very helpful," she said.

            "Sorry, love.  Couldn't resist."

            "Yeah, well, resist," she said, wishing she had a snappier comeback, but her head was throbbing.  Two injuries in one short space of time could not be good for a person's consciousness.

            "You're in a bad mood this morning."

            "Maybe this is my usual mood."

            "Maybe it is."  He eyed her thoughtfully.  "Still no memories?"

            She didn't look at him, just shook her head and got off the bed.

            William settled back as comfortably as he could to watch her get dressed.  His arms ached horribly.

            "I could help you, you know," he said.

            "I can manage," Perdita snapped, trying to remember in what order things went on.  Damn.  Corset, then hip roll?  Yes, that would make sense.  Now, now the hell did she get it fastened?  It was so tight.

            "You need to loosen it a bit," William said helpfully, and she glared at him.  "Just a suggestion."

            She did so, and fastened the hooks and eyes, but then she realised she needed to tighten the corset strings, or Willow's dress would never fit.

            Part of her wondered if there was a woman out there who was allowed to wear clothes that fit her body, not her stays.  And then the rest of her dismissed it.  Of course not.  That would just be stupid.

            Sighing, she came back over to the bed and untied his wrist ropes.  William flexed his arms and rubbed his skin.  "Thanks."

            "You'd better pull them pretty tight," Perdita said.  "The waist on that dress is very small."

            "I'd noticed.  Maybe you should hold onto something," he said, and was slightly disappointed when she took him literally and hooked her arms around the post at the head of the bed.  He looked around her.  Yes, because his spine was just meant to twist like that.  "And then maybe you'd better untie my ankles, 'cos I'm not an invertebrate."

            It was obvious she'd no idea what that was, but she untied them anyway so he could stand, and, rather nervous at presenting her back to him, grabbed the pistol and the knives and held them ready while he laughed.

            "I'm not going to strangle you, love," he said, which was true - his thoughts were much dirtier than that.  Her chemise was awfully thin and she did have a rather delicious little bottom...

            "Can you just tie the corset, please?" Perdita snapped, and William shook himself out of it.  At least she'd said please.

            She didn't make a sound as he pulled the corset strings as tight as he could get them, wondering how the hell a skinny little bint like Willow had managed it.  And how the hell did a woman's ribcage compress that much?  Perdita wasn't fat, but then she wasn't that skinny, either.  Her curves were rather nice.  How did they all fit under that corset?

            "You know, I think you look better without it," he said softly, and was amazed when she let out a small laugh.

            "Mindreader.  I bet you any money these things were invented by a man."

            "Why's that?"

            "Because they don't have to wear them."

            "Some do."

            "Oh, right-" she began, with deep sarcasm, and William laughed.

            "No, old fat men wear them.  And dandies."

            "And how would you know?"

            "People hide stuff under their clothes.  Best way to get them to hand it over, make 'em strip.  You know, the women don't mind so much, but the men... First I thought they must all be hiding a fortune, then I realised it was just their bellies..."

            She wasn't laughing any more, and William cursed himself.  Dammit.  He hadn't wanted to remind her what he was.

            "You need help with the rest, love?"

            "No.  I-"  Perdita stamped her foot.  It wasn't just her long-term memory that was failing her, she couldn't even remember yesterday.  She must have got dressed like this a hundred times before.  It wasn't new.  "What goes on next?"

            William settled his palms on her waist, which was now small enough to wrap his hands around.  "Should be a cage, love, but you don't have one."

            "A what?"

            "A cage.  For the skirts?  Actually, some women don't wear them at all any more, I hear in England it's quite fashionable to go without... Are you laughing at me?"

            She turned, his hands still at her waist, and smiled.

            William sucked in a breath.

            "You, knowing all about ladies' fashions."

            "Yeah, well, some of those dresses are worth a lot, love.  Sell 'em on for quite a bit."

            Her smile faded.  "I suppose so."

            William cleared his throat and moved away before he started doing things that would make her hurt him.  "I think this goes next," he said, holding up a wide pad, shaped to fit around her waist.  It was to hold the skirts out, used in place of the panniers grand ladies wore.  On quiet days - and days when they wanted to get through doors - the excessively wide, flat skirts were reduced a little by wearing hip pads and the prettily named bum roll, like the one he tied around Perdita's little waist.

            He added a couple of petticoats, the bottom one plain cotton edged with narrow lace, the top one prettier, a panel of patterned calico at the front of it.  Then he put Willow's green dress on over it, fastening the hooks in front to the stomacher he'd pinned to the front of the corset.

            Perdita stood still, letting him dress her, his face earnest, concentrating, smoothing out the fabric, making sure everything was right.  He fussed with the frills at her elbows and she had to hide a smile.  For someone so apparently careless, he was quite a perfectionist.  Briefly she wondered if he wore stays to keep his waist and hips so narrow, but then she remembered waking up with her arms around him, and feeling the heat of his skin under his fine lawn shirt.  There'd been nothing under there but hot, hard muscle-

            No, bad Perdita.  Stop thinking like that.

            He sat her down on the edge of the bed and asked for her foot and, after a second's pause, she held it out to him and he rolled a stocking up her smooth, slim leg, trying a garter just below her knee and trying not to tremble as he moved onto the other leg.  He wanted to smooth his hands up the rest of her leg, feel the softness of her thigh, up under her skirts to her delicious little buttocks, slip his fingers between her legs and-

            "Finished?" she asked, and he looked up, slightly flushed.

            "Wanted to make you pretty," he said as she stood.  "Well, prettier."

            "That's enough," she said, and then added, "thank you."

            He smiled at her, the first genuine smile she'd seen from him, and it was quite breathtaking.  Perdita's arms were resting on the exaggerated hips of her skirts, but she had a sudden compulsion to put them around his neck.

            Stop it, Perdita.  He's a bad, evil man, he robs people and probably kills them too, and he could have violated you last night...

            Although maybe being violated by him wouldn't be so bad...

            She wasn't sure if he kissed her or she kissed him, but their lips met, hot and soft and permissive and demanding, and William pressed her tight corseted body against his and sank his teeth into her lip.  Perdita let out a little moan, and her hand came up, tangled in his long pale hair, held him to her.

            "God," William moaned, "you taste so good."

            And Perdita's eyes snapped open, she stared at him in horror, and backed away, stumbling over the skirts which were too long for her.

            "I - but - no, what-?"

            And William looked at her, flushed pink cheeks, hot glistening red lips, long tousled blonde hair, and knew if he stayed he'd never leave.  And he had to leave.

            "Bugger," he said, and grabbed the pistol from her hand before she realised what he was doing.  "Perdita, sweetheart, I'm sorry," he said, and smartly whacked the butt of the pistol into her head, caught her and laid her on the bed, and then advanced towards the window.

            He stopped, and looked down at himself.  Dammit, he'd never be able to climb down in this state.

            He looked back at Perdita, lying there like a pre-Raphaelite heroine, hair flowing around her, covering the cut on her face, her bosom rising and falling above the low neckline of the dress, and his hand was inside his breeches almost before he knew what he was doing.  A few strokes brought him relief, gasping Perdita's name, then he grabbed his trademark leather greatcoat, tucked the pistol into his waistband, and was off.

            "Do you think she's taking a long time?" Willow asked, looking up at the stairs.

            "I don't know, Will, it takes you hours to get dressed."

            "We can't all just throw our clothes on in a few seconds," she said.  "Some of us have to take time with our appearance.  I think she's taking a long time."  She put her hand on the banister.

            "Uh, Will," Xander said, "maybe she's, uh, not, you know, taking time on her own."

            She stopped, and looked back at him.  "You think she's getting naughty with the highwayman?"

            "Well, they looked pretty cosy this morning."

            "She had him tied up!"

            "Some people like that," Xander said, thinking happily of Faith again.

            "Well, I don't think so.  I'm going to see."

            "Willow Rosenberg!  Not without me," Xander said, and bolted up the steps ahead of her.  They both hesitated in front of the door, looked at each other nervously.

            "I guess we should knock," Willow said.

            "I don't hear anything," Xander said, and his voice was touched with disappointment.

            Willow rolled her eyes at him and knocked.  Nothing.  She knocked again, and listened hard.

            "Perdita?  I'm coming in, okay?  Are you alright?"

            Still nothing.  Willow pushed the door open, then raced inside when she saw Perdita lying prone across the bed, the curtains fluttering in the breeze.  William was nowhere to be seen.  Xander tried to tell himself that it was just as well Perdita was dressed, but he didn't believe himself.  Couldn't she have passed out while still wearing that little chemise?

            Willow was shaking Perdita by the shoulders, and the blonde's eyelashes fluttered.

            "Perdita?  Are you alright?"

            She opened her eyes.  "Willow..."

            "Well, she still remembers us," Xander said lightly, and Perdita's eyes snapped fully open.

            "Remember anything else?" Willow asked curiously.

            "I remember everything," Perdita mumbled quickly.  She felt her aching head.  "He hit me."

            "Who?  William?  Where did he go?"

            She shook her head.  "I-"  The memory of his hot lips on hers was burning Perdita.  "I don't know.  I guess he escaped."

            Willow sat down on the bed.  "At least he didn't, you know, try anything," she said.  "Did he?"

            "No.  No.  He didn't."  Perdita ran her hands through her hair.  "Thank you for coming in.  I'm getting sort of tired of being hit over the head."

            "Who hit you last time?" Xander asked.

            "The highwayman.  The one who robbed my coach.  When I ran," Perdita babbled.  "I, er, it bled, didn't it?"

            "Yes, but it's not too bad," Willow said, checking it.  "Maybe we should go and find a doctor, though, just to check.  I mean, head wounds can be bad."

            "I'm not sure I can afford a doctor," Perdita said shyly.

            "Well, actually," Willow reached inside her bodice, much to Xander's interest, and pulled out a purse, much to Perdita's.  "I found this inside your dress.  Did you forget about it?"

            Perdita opened the purse and stared at the money inside.  No wonder her dress had felt heavy!  She was rich!

            "Oh my," she said.  "I - I guess it must have been the shock, I forgot..." She looked up at Willow.  "Let's go and find that doctor!"

            They packed their belongings into saddlebags they found in the barn outside the house, and rather guiltily added a few things from the house, too.  Bits of clothing, knives, flint and tinder.

            "It's not like they'll be needing it," Perdita tried to rationalise, "and someone else could come to the house and we'd have lost everything..."

            She left behind her ruined dress and underclothes.  They were too spoiled to be worn again.

            William the Bloody had taken his big black horse away with him, so they were left with the single, heavy carriage horse they'd rescued from the stagecoach wreck.  Taking it in turns to ride, they talked all the way along the road, taking the opposite direction from the one they'd come from, and Perdita found out about Willow and Xander's lives so far.

            "I think it's marvellous you know so much," she said.  "I don't think it's a mark of witchhood.  I wish I knew about Shakespeare and the English.  I mean, I hate the English," she added, based on one day's acquaintance with one who was particularly unpleasant, "but I'd still like to know more about them."

            "Well, I can tell you," Willow said enthusiastically, and Xander groaned.

            "Once she starts, she'll never stop," he said, and Willow bashed his arm.

            "Just because your skull is too think to learn anything," she teased.

            "No, I've just become immune, because you never stop talking about literature and history and the English and all that stuff.  Can't we talk about interesting things, like carpentry?"

            "Carpentry isn't interesting!" Willow laughed.  "Perdita doesn't want to hear about carpentry."

            "Sure I would," Perdita said, smiling at their easy friendship.  "I'd like to hear about it all.  Especially you two.  When did you get married?"

            They stared at her, then Xander started laughing.  "Married?  Are you insane?"

            "Oh, thanks," Willow said, and Perdita could tell she was more hurt than she let on.

            "Oh come on, Will, I didn't mean... It's just, you're Jewish and I'm Methodist, and, well, you're like my sister, and..." He stopped, realising she was hurt.  "I'm sorry, Will.  We're practically married anyway.  Often," he looked up at Perdita, who was on the horse, "we pretend we are married, just to make it easier.  People have a problem with us just being friends."

            Yes, Perdita thought, and Willow's one of them.

            "So what shall we be in town?" she asked lightly.  "Your wife and your mistress?"

            Xander's eyes misted over.

            "How about your sisters," Willow rolled his eyes.

            "A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead," Perdita laughed, "what kind of a gene pool is that?"

            Willow was impressed.  Not too many people had heard of a gene pool.

            Perdita was confused.  What kind of a gene pool was that?

            Xander was smitten.  Smart and beautiful.  The perfect woman.

            "Look," Willow pointed, "I think that's something there..."

            They came into the little town and the first thing they did was find a horse trader.  They re-shod the carriage horse and bought another animal with Perdita's money.  Willow and Xander told her she didn't have to, but she insisted.

            "He can't carry three of us," she said, "he can barely carry two.  We'll need a saddle too, and a bridle, and..."

            They tied the horses outside a large house that the blacksmith had told them belonged to the local doctor, and knocked politely.  A woman with a neat cap over her grey hair answered, admitted them to a little parlour, and then took Perdita through to the doctor's study.

            He examined her head wound.  "It's not serious," he said, "but it may leave a small scar."

            "I can cover it," Perdita said, and he was surprised at her nonchalance.  Most young women would be horrified to learn that they'd be facially scarred.

            He put a few stitches in, told her to keep it clean, and took some money from her.

            "Well?" Willow asked when they'd left.  "Is it okay?"

            She showed them the stitches.  "It hurts," she said, "more now that it did before.  Needles are nasty.  Let's go and get something to eat to make me feel better."

            It was nearing lunchtime, and Willow and Xander were about to head towards a street vendor for food, when Perdita strolled towards the nearest tavern.

            "Uh, Perdita?  A tavern?"

            "It's broad daylight," she said, "and we are travellers.  We'll be fine.  Come on."

            Inside it was low and dark, but not as intimidating as Xander had feared.  They were served plates of indiscernible meat and some stewed vegetables, which Willow picked at and Perdita wolfed down.

            "Sorry," she said, "I don't remember eating in a long time."

            "Exactly when was this coach robbery?" Xander asked, but Willow kicked him under the table, because a young woman was passing their table, going up to the bar.

            "Mistress McClay," the barman said.  "What can I do you for?"

            "Any news?" she asked diffidently, playing nervously with the ties of her cloak.

            "Nope.  Nothing.  You could ask those three," he pointed to Perdita's table, and she ducked her head.  "Travellers."

            Mistress McClay looked terribly shy, but she came over and half whispered, "Excuse me?"

            "Can we help you?" Willow asked, her face friendly.

            "I - m-my master is - he wanted to kn-now... There was a shipwreck a few m-miles up the coast, and he wants to kn-now any news of it.  Do you have any n-news of it?"

            Willow willed her eyes not to flick at Xander.  They'd discussed Perdita's hasty cover-up this morning while she was with William, and neither of them had believed her story about the highwayman.  Not completely, anyway.  She'd definitely been in the sea.  She had something to do with the shipwreck, but neither of them wanted to ask her what.

            "Why does he want to know?" Xander asked.

            "He's anxious to hear of a f-friend on board.  Some of them took boats to safety, but a lot didn't m-make it."

            "I'm sorry to hear that," Xander said.  "We rode through the storm, but we didn't hear anything of a shipwreck.  I'm sorry."

            The girl nodded, gave a small smile, and turned to go.

            "Wait," Perdita said.  "Who is your master?"

            "Mr. Giles.  He's the schoolteacher," Miss McClay said.

            "If we hear anything, we'll pass it on."

            "I'm very grateful," she said, and this time her smile was braver.  Then she left.

            Further inland, William the Bloody pulled his horse to a halt, patted her flanks, and tied her up outside a tavern.

            "Gimme some whisky," he said when he walked in, and when a small glass was put on the counter, he shook his head.  "The whole bottle."

            "Bad journey?" the barman asked.

            "No, the journey was bloody marvellous.  Rolling countryside and pretty trees and fair maidens sodding everywhere."

            "It's a woman," the bartender surmised.

            "Damn right it is.  Stupid sodding women.  I could - I could just go out and get another one, and d'you think she'd care?  No.  Sodding bint."

            The barman wondered if the blond man had been drinking before, because so far he'd not touched the bottle in front of him, but he sounded pretty pissed already.

            "Turned you down?"

            "Turned me down, tied me up, kissed me like her lungs stopped working, and what did I do?"

            "What did you do?" the bartender asked, interested.

            "I bloody left."

            "Why?"

            He shrugged.  "Search me.  Chivalry."

            "I thought chivalry was dead."

            "Yeah, mate, me too.  God, the things I could do to that tight little body," William made feminine shapes in the air and clawed his fingers around them.

            "Don't she want you?"

            William pictured her breasts heaving under her thin chemise, her lips hot and red, her flushed cheeks, remembered her arms around him as he slept, her fingers tangling in his hair, and he let out a long breath.

            "She wants me."

            "Then... Oh," the bartender said.  "Is she married?"

            "No.  At least - God, I hope not."  The thought of some long-forgotten husband claiming her completely sickened William.  What the hell was wrong with him?

            "Betrothed, then."

            "No."

            "Then what's your problem?"

            William considered the whisky bottle in front of him.  Yeah, what was his problem?  The wench wanted him and by God, he wanted her.  He could take her if he wanted to.  He had his pistol back and he knew her fondness for ropes.  He'd tie her to the bed, gag her mouth and shag her out of his system.

            Only...

            Only, dammit, he didn't want to rape her.  He wanted to exalt in her pleasure.  Wanted to hear her cry his name, tighten herself around him in every way, clutch at him and beg him not to stop...

            "Bollocks," he said, and went and got back on his horse.


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

            They went back to the farmhouse, grateful to find it still unoccupied, and Willow began to teach Perdita how to make an apple pie with food they'd got from the village and found on the farm.  Xander found some tools in the shed and went around the house fixing up the shutters that had got broken by the storm, and by the time it got dark, they were all tired, quite full of apples, and eager to get to bed.

            Perdita planned to make her escape as soon as the others were asleep, go down to the schoolmaster's house and ask who he'd known on that ship.  Maybe it might jog her memory.

            Willow knew Perdita had been on that ship, had gone down with it, had been spat back out onto the shore.  She meant to go and tackle Perdita about it, but in the middle of the night, because if Xander knew, he'd want in as well and she could question Perdita better on her own.

            Xander wanted to know what the schoolmaster knew about the shipwreck.  If he could help Perdita, maybe reunite her with friends or family, find out where she was running from, stop the danger she seemed to think she was in, maybe her thoughts of him would be a little better.  Maybe she'd admire him.  Maybe she'd respect him.

            They'd fixed up the two ruined beds, put clean sheets on them and sponged away the blood, and so Xander and Willow had rooms for the night.  The three said goodnight on the landing, shut their doors, and each got into bed fully dressed.

            And waited.

            And waited.

            Perdita nearly dropped off a few times, still exhausted from something she didn't remember doing.  All right, so she'd woken up on a beach surrounded by driftwood and soaking wet, and there had been a shipwreck, so it was fair to assume she'd had something to do with that.  She supposed nearly getting drowned must be fairly knackering.

            Xander waited a good few hours, or as near as he could tell, then flipped back the covers and got out of bed, glad he'd nailed down all the creaky floorboards earlier in the day.

            All the ones in his room, that was.  What about the ones outside?  Who was creaking them?

            Suddenly afraid, though of what he didn't know - the ghosts of the murdered family?  Their murderers coming back to collect the bodies?  Which was scarier? - he grabbed the hammer and crowbar he'd been using earlier and, er, yes, forgot to take out of his room, and advanced towards the door.

            He yanked it open and nearly attacked the person standing there, but it was Perdita, her hand raised to knock.

            "Mr. Harris!"

            "Perdita?  What - I mean, what," he lowered his voice to its normal pitch, "are you doing out here?"

            "I came to ask a favour," she whispered.  "It's just, I'm afraid that the highwayman might come back to my room and try to, you know, do something... inappropriate..."

            Xander knew.  He'd been thinking about it all night.

            "So I was wondering if, maybe, seeing as you're armed, you might swap rooms with me?  Just so I can be warned if he comes."

            Warned, Xander thought, by my bloody corpse when he kills me for not being you.  Or worse, doesn't realise and starts to-

            "Sure," he heard himself saying.  "I'll protect you."

            Perdita smiled prettily and edged past into his room.

            "Wait, why are you still dressed?" he asked.

            "Well, to, erm, obviously, Xander, I'm still dressed because, er, that way, I'd be better protected against the highwayman."  She nodded decisively.  "Why are you still dressed?"

            "I was cold," Xander suggested.

            "Ah.  Yes.  Cold.  That too.  Well, good night."

            She shut the door hurriedly.  She would love to see William's face if he got into bed with Xander - cruel though it was, but she was sure Xander could take care of himself.  And William wouldn't hurt him - he'd had ample chances to before.

            She settled back in the other bed and closed her eyes, just for a few seconds.

            Xander let himself into Perdita's room, went over and breathed in her scent from the pillow.  In just a few minutes he really ought to leave... Although, wasn't it cowardly, going and leaving her when she was so frightened?

            But then Willow was here and Perdita could be a vicious little thing when she wanted...

            He went to the door and nearly screamed when he saw it opening.

            "Perdita?" someone whispered, and Xander only started breathing again when he realised it was Willow.

            "Will?"

            "Xander?"

            "What are you doing here?" they asked at the same time.

            "I came looking for Perdita."

            "Why are you still dressed?" Xander asked for the second time in five minutes.

            "I was cold," she said, as if it was obvious.  "Why are you?  And what's with the hammer?"

            "I, er..." It was pointless trying to lie.  She'd see right through him.  "I was going to go and see the schoolteacher."

            "Really?  Why?"

            "Because he knew someone on that ship and I thought..."

            "He might be able to tell us about Perdita.  Xander, you're a genius!"

            "I am?"  He was perplexed.

            "Yes!"  She threw her arms around him.  "We should go now, while she's still asleep."

            "We?  But shouldn't you stay here and, uh, guard her?"

            "Guard the woman who saved us from the most notorious highwayman Massachusetts has ever known?"

            Xander opened his mouth, closed it, thought about going all the way down to the village in the dark, on his own, and said, "Good point.  You can soften him up with talk of Plato.  Let's go."

            They crept downstairs, mounted the horses without saddles, and galloped away over the grassy paddock at the back of the house, so as to make the least possible noise.

            William slowed his horse as he saw the farmhouse come into view, empty of any lights, dark and lonely.  God, please don't say she'd moved on already.  He couldn't bear having to chase her all over the state.

            He just had to have her, just once, and then she'd be out of his system and he could get on with things.  Go and find some other blonde bird to shag.  Forget about her.

            He tethered his horse and swung easily up onto the porch roof.  And from there it wasn't hard to push up the sash window, which obviously wasn't locked, and step soundlessly into Perdita's bedroom.  He crept over to the bed, the room so dark he couldn't see a thing, and reached out his hand, anticipating her warm, smooth skin under his fingers.

            He got bedclothes.

            He tried again.

            More bedclothes.

            "Perdita?"

            His hand touched a lamp by the bed and he lit it.

            The bed was empty.  She'd gone.

            "Oh, bloody hell!"

            Perdita awoke sharply at the sound coming from the next room.  Oh God, she thought, he's come back and he's going to hurt Xander!  What have I done!

            She grabbed the axe she'd hidden under her skirts and readied it as she crept along the hall and pushed open Xander's door. 

            "Leave him alone!" she cried, rushing in, wielding the axe, aiming straight for the dark figure leaning over the bed and very nearly hitting him.  The axe buried itself in the mattress and Perdita grabbed hold of the handle at the same time she realised that Xander was nowhere to be seen.

            "What have you done with him?" she began, whirling around to slam her fists against William's chest, but he caught her arms and crushed her against him.

            "Perdita!  God, I thought you'd gone."

            "Where has he gone?"

            "I'm right here, love."

            "Not you," she wriggled out of his grip, "Xander."

            "Who?"  God, she looked incredible, hair loose, cheeks flushed with anger, eyes flashing... William was glad for his long overcoat that hid the bulge that was starting in his breeches.

            "Xander.  He was in here.  Where is he now?  What did you do with him?"

            "I didn't do anything," William protested as she went for the axe and aimed it at him.  "He wasn't here when I came in and anyway, isn't this your room?  What was he doing in here?"  A horrible thought occurred to him.  "Were you sleeping with him?"

            "First you attack me, then you try to kill me, and now you're insulting me?"  Perdita glared at him and flounced out of the room to see where Willow was.  But her bed was empty, too.  Where had they gone?  Left already?

            She whirled around in the doorway, nearly whacking William with the axe.  He grabbed the handle and threw it to the ground.

            "What the hell is going on here?"

            "I could say the same thing," Perdita put her hands on her hips.  "What are you doing here?"

            "I-"  Bugger, he couldn't say he came to see her.  That just sounded ridiculous.  "I forgot to take something when I was here before."

            "What?  Your brain?"

            "No, you," William said, and grabbed her round that tiny waist, and held her head to his so he could kiss her, as sweetly as he had that morning.

            But Perdita fought.  She pushed and kicked and bit on his lip and William reeled away.  "Ow!"

            "Damn right, 'ow!'  What do you think you're doing?"

            Dammit, her bosom was heaving again.

            "Perdita," William said, "you can't tell me you didn't feel it.  This morning.  Last night.  The heat between us.  The way we fit together."

            "Oh, God," Perdita said.

            "I felt it when we kissed," he said.  "Well, the first time, anyway, because let's face it, you just bloody bit me, but this morning.  Didn't you feel it?"

            "Get out of here before I kill you."

            Well, maybe not.

            "Perdita," he was almost begging now, "please, love, give me another try.  Just a kiss.  No more.  Just one kiss.  Then I'll go."

            She reached for the axe, but he caught her wrist.

            "One more kiss," he said, "and then if you still want me to go, I'll walk out."  Awkwardly, because he now had a massive hard-on, but hopefully she didn't know that.  Yet.

            Perdita's nostrils flared.  Damn him if he hadn't been good to kiss.  He tasted of whisky and tobacco and his lips were soft and his tongue strong and-

            Dammit, she hadn't even decided and here he was, kissing her again.

            The trouble was, as William well knew, that once he'd started kissing her so gently, so passionately, so longingly, she wouldn't be able to tell him to go.  Perdita leaned into him, not angry like she'd been the last time, not shocked and frightened, knowing she was in control.  When she stopped kissing him, he'd go.  And if he didn't, she'd just grab ahold of that stock around his neck and pull it a bit tighter...

            Or maybe she could undo it first, because then the strangling would be easier.

            My, didn't he have a beautiful neck.

            I can stop at any time, Perdita told herself as she kissed him a little bit more.  Any time I want to.

            I just really don't want to.

            William was delighted.  Just so long as he didn't push her too much, she seemed pretty happy snogging the life out of him.  God, she was good at this.  The thought occurred to him that well-brought-up girls shouldn't know how to kiss like that, but then by this point he really didn't care if she'd been brought up in a mansion or a goddamn swamp.

            Gently, testing her, he moved one hand to her breast and covered the exposed swell with his fingers.  She sighed softly against his mouth, but didn't protest.  Excellent, William thought.  In more ways than one.

            He knew what a lady wore under her petticoats - he knew exactly, in Perdita's case - and it wasn't much.  Really, under that short chemise, she was naked.  Totally, deliciously naked.  He could just push her up against the door frame, reach under her skirts, and be inside her in seconds.  He could shag her rotten without having to take any clothes off.

            But he wanted to see her naked, wanted to touch and caress her all over.  He hardened his resolve to get her clothes off.

            His resolve not being the only thing hardening.

            Perdita felt his hands move down her bodice, unhooking it from the stomacher, and a little voice in the back of her mind told her that he was _taking her clothes off!_  And then the rest of her said, yes, but you're taking his off, too.  It's only fair, when you think about it.  And it'd be a shame to stop now, when you're just catching sight of that lovely smooth chest.

            A sudden weight fell off her, and Perdita looked up, surprised, into William's hot blue eyes.  He pushed her heavy dress to the floor and picked her up in his arms, took her back into the room they'd shared the night before, and kicked the door firmly shut.

            He laid her down on the bed.  Her heart was hammering.

            "I thought you were going to go," she whispered, her mouth dry.

            "Make me."

            Perdita sat up to pull him to her: his mouth was too far from hers and she couldn't stand not kissing him.  Was he a source of some new breathing material?  Had she adapted from oxygen?  She needed to be kissing him.  She simply couldn't stop.

            William happily obliged, his hands rapidly pulling the stomacher from where he'd pinned it that morning, then starting on the hooks and eyes of her corset, untying her petticoats - damn, there were so many stupid layers!  He could hardly believe he was going to have her.  Feel her hot skin against his, touch those perfect round breasts, roll those pretty nipples between his fingers.

            He pushed the corset away, and Perdita sucked in a grateful breath.

            "Feels good to breathe," he said to her with a smile, and she smiled back.  Yep, that was it.  The smile sealed it.  He'd have her, or he'd die.

            She was pushing at his shoulders, and William realised that the only item of clothing he'd shed was his stock.  Stupid bit of clothing anyway.  Obviously she didn't like it.  He'd never wear it again.

            He shoved away his coat, pulled his waistcoat off so fast he nearly popped the buttons, and yanked his shirt off over his head.  The fabric stuck to his skin with sweat - both from riding so fast to get here and from wanting Perdita so much.

            She put her head to his chest and licked it.

            William's eyes rolled back in his head.  "God, Perdita, don't, I can only stand so much..."

            She looked up at him with those big green eyes, and he groaned and captured her mouth again, pressing her down on the bed, running his hands over those beautiful curves of hers.

            "I hate that bloody corset too," he growled, making her laugh, and he smiled at her happiness and started kissing her neck.  She arched back and as she did, her chemise slipped down over one nipple.

            It was too much to resist.  He dipped his head and licked it, and Perdita let out - there was no other word for it - a whimper.  Encouraged, so turned on he thought he might burst, William took the little bud in his mouth and sucked gently, nipped it with his teeth, revelling in her whispers and moans as she clutched at his hair and held him there.

            Eventually he lifted his head, lips wet, pupils huge, and rolled away from her.  Perdita looked shocked and horribly hurt, until she realised he was just taking off his boots and breeches, and that underneath, he was naked.

            Oh, wow.

            She'd nearly swooned at the sight of his bare chest, his taut stomach, his moulded shoulders - but now her eyes went lower, and she blushed hotly.  She'd felt that pressing up against her, but she hadn't realised it was quite so big.

            "Now, love," William said as he gently pulled her chemise away from her and looked down at her naked body, her perfect curves, the curls between her legs, her rosy breasts, her strong legs, and he forgot what he was saying as he pulled her to him, fitting his body along the length of hers, feeling how small and soft she was against his hardness - God, all of him was so hard.

            Perdita started kissing him again and William ran his hands over her stomach and hips, down to her thighs, lifting one of them above his hip.  He could feel her, sweet Lord he could feel her, wet and slippery and hot for him, and it was all he could do to lift his head from hers and look at her with unfocused eyes and try to tell her, "Love, this might hurt a little, when I first-"

            And then she rolled him over on his back, straddling him, her hair falling over her face as she bent back down to kiss him and lifted her hips to position above him-

            And then she came down, and took him inside her, and William thought he might die from the pleasure of it.

            "Oh _God_," he gasped, feeling her close tightly around him, gripping her hips with both hands and holding her still for a few seconds while he got his mind back.  It wouldn't do to have it all over too soon.

            "Didn't hurt," she panted, smiling a bit, and she arched her back, moving her pelvis, altering her grip on him.  William pulled her down to him, caressed her breast, took her lower lip between his teeth, and looked into her eyes.

            "Minx," he said.


	5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

            "You think she was on the ship?" the schoolmaster asked.

            "I'm pretty sure she was.  The state of her clothes, her hair was all salty, the cut on her head was healing well like it had had some saltwater on it," Willow said.

            "Describe her to me again."

            "Well, she's quite small, shorter than me, petite, she has blonde hair and green eyes and she's very pretty."

            "But she maintains her name is Perdita?

            "That's the name we gave her.  You know, from The Winter's Tale?  She's hiding behind that name, she won't tell us who she really is.  We thought she might when she started talking-"

            "Wait, you mean she _stopped_ talking??"

            "When we found her.  She didn't say a word all day.  She said she was in shock - later, I mean, she said she was in shock.  She made up a story about a highway robber hitting her on the head, but we didn't believe her."

            The schoolteacher sighed and took off his glasses to polish them.  "Sadly," he said, "there may be some truth in that."

            Willow and Xander looked at each other.  They'd knocked on the door of the schoolteacher's cottage - easy to find, right next to the school - in the middle of the night and the door had been opened by Miss McClay, cap over her head, gown wrapped around her, yawning.

            "Oh," she said in surprise, realising who it was.  "You were in the tavern..."

            "We think we might know something about the shipwreck," Willow had said, and they'd been allowed in to wait with tea and cake, perfectly civilised as if it wasn't the middle of the night, while the schoolmaster was roused.  He came in, hastily dressed, his hair cut short to fit under the wig he wasn't wearing.

            "Rupert Giles," he said.  "You know something about the shipwreck?"

            The told her about Perdita and he nodded thoughtfully.  "The person I am looking for was a passenger on The Redoubtable," he said.  "The daughter of an old friend of mine.  He died many years ago, but I've kept in touch with his widow and I am - somewhat remotely - godfather to his little girl, Miss Elizabeth.  Although I suppose by now she must be a young woman.  She lived with her mother on a plantation in Virginia.  We corresponded often, and about a year ago Joyce wrote to me to tell me of her daughter's engagement to a young Lieutenant of the Guard."

            "What's a leftenenant?" Xander whispered to Willow.

            "The English way of saying lieutenant," Willow whispered back.  She wondered why the schoolmaster was telling them all this.

            "But a few months ago it all went rather bad," Mr. Giles went on.  "Have you heard of the Slayer?  A notorious highwayman in the Virginia area - terrorised the roads.  Joyce wrote to me often of dreadful attacks not far from where they lived.  After a while the Captain of the Guard decided to take action and lay in wait for the Slayer.  His lieutenant - Riley Finn, Elizabeth's fiancé - cautioned against it, but the captain would not hear of it.  There was an altercation, several men were lost, and the Slayer was seen disappearing in the direction of Joyce's house.

            "The captain placed them under house arrest, accusing them of hiding the highwayman, although he could not be found in the house.  The worst part was that poor Elizabeth's fiancé had been killed in the fight.  She and Joyce were alone and unprotected.  Eventually they managed to escape, and I received a letter saying that they had found passage on a ship to Boston, called The Redoubtable."

            "And then the ship sank," Willow said.

            "Yes.  Joyce's body was, I am sad to say, found on the beach.  There was a rope around her, as if to tie her to someone else, but the rope had broken.  Wherever Elizabeth is, she was not found among the wreckage on the beach.  It may be that she went down with the ship, but I do remember her being a fierce little creature, she terrified her father by swimming in the ocean.  She could easily have swum to safety."

            "Even in the storm?" Xander asked.

            "Yes, well, of course there is that to consider.  I am choosing to believe that my goddaughter has survived the wreckage," Mr. Giles said firmly.  "It may be that she landed far away, further up the coast, or was rescued by another ship.  Some survivors were found by a ship of the Royal Navy, somewhere off the coast of New Hampshire."

            "And at least one of them made it to the farm outside of town," Xander said.

            "Even if she's not your Elizabeth," Willow said, "she might know something of her.  It wouldn't hurt to ask."

            The schoolteacher put some outside clothes on and Miss McClay saddled up his horse and the three of them rode back up to the farmhouse.  But when they got there, Perdita was gone.

            "That," William said when he'd started breathing again, "was not your first time."

            "No, I don't think it was."

            "Who the hell are you, Perdita?"

            "I don't know."

            He pulled her to him and kissed her.  "I don't think I care.  I _like_ you."

            She smiled and curled up in the bed with him, feigning sleep, but her mind was whirling.  What on earth had she just done?

            No, really, what had she done?  She wasn't sure if there were even words for some of the things William had pulled off.

            She had given herself to a complete stranger, a highwayman, a bad, evil man, and here she was, lying peacefully with him, completely naked.  He'd been right though: she knew that hadn't been her first time.  She'd been with another man - maybe lots of men.  Who knew?  Maybe the real Perdita was a whore.

            The more she thought about it, it became the only explanation.  How else would she have known those things?  William had said it was her calling - now she knew he was right.  She was a filthy, rotten whore.  She gave her body for men's pleasure.

            Although she'd had a fair amount of her own pleasure this night...

            Perdita made her decision and, when she was sure William was fast asleep, she crept out of bed and started picking up her scattered clothes.  But it soon became apparent that she'd never be able to dress herself in all those layers.  She'd needed his help before.

            Dammit.  Why couldn't a lady dress herself?

            Her eyes alighted on the pile of clothes William had discarded. She didn't know what made her do it, but something did.  She pulled on his black breeches and shirt - honestly, who had a black shirt?  Who had any colour shirt but white? - his red waistcoat, black coat and boots.  She looked at the leather overcoat.  It was heavy, but it would be warm, and it felt good against the skin of her hands and her neck...

            She pulled it on, and it did feel good.  Everything was a little too big on her - the boots especially, but she put on a couple of extra pairs of stockings from the chest at the end of the bed, and it wasn't so bad.  She found a tricorne hat in Xander's room and shoved her hair into the velvet bag he used to hold his ponytail.  There.  In the mirror, she looked like she could be a teenage boy.

            Excellent.

            She went downstairs, found William's black horse still saddled, standing there looking bored.  She was surprised to discover it was a mare, unusually soft for someone like William the Bloody, but the sex of the horse didn't matter to her at all.

            She found the road and rode hard along it for hours.

            Xander and Willow led Giles up the staircase of the house, telling him they'd found it abandoned - did they know who used to live here?

            "Oh, let me think.  I used to see their daughter sometimes in the village - odd girl, kept herself to herself.  I wonder where they went?"

            Xander looked at Willow and shook his head.  It wouldn't be a good thing for anyone to know the family had been murdered - people started pointing fingers, and usually they wound up aimed at Willow.

            She knocked on Perdita's door and called her name.  Nothing.  Glancing up at Xander, she said, "Perdita?  I'm coming in.  There's someone here who wants to talk to you but I won't let him in until you're ready."

            She opened the door.  And then she nearly fainted.

            "Where the bloody hell," William said, "are my sodding clothes?"

            Willow stared at William.  William stared at Giles, who came into the doorway with Xander.

            "And who's he?  Where's Perdita?"

            "What did you do with her?" Xander yelled.

            "What didn't I do.  She was here a couple of hours ago - where'd she go?"

            They all looked at each other.  "We had the horses," Willow said, "so she can't have got far if she's walking."

            "_If_ she's walking," Xander said darkly.  "Unless someone took her."

            "Now, hold on a minute," Giles said.

            "Is my horse there?" William said.  "Big black thing.  Hooves big enough to squash a man's head.  Literally."

            Giles went down to look, leaving Willow and Xander glaring at William.

            "What?  Oh, like she was all maidenly anyway.  Wench was giving me the come-on all the time I was here."

            "Did you - did you-" Xander began, spluttering slightly.

            "Did I ravish her?  Destroy her maidenly virtues?  Ruin her?  Oh, bloody hell, yes.  I ruined her for all other men," William said smugly.  "Although someone else got there before me on the maiden part."

            "This isn't important," Willow said.  "Mr. Giles is looking for someone we think might be Perdita.  Did she tell you her real name?"

            William opened his mouth to tell them Perdita didn't even know her real name, then he thought better of it.  "Nope.  Who's he looking for - wait, _Giles_?"

            "Yes, Mr. Giles.  He's the local schoolmaster."

            "Bloody hell," William breathed, as Giles came puffing back up the stairs, shaking his head.  "There's no horse there.  She must have taken it."

            "Rupert Giles?" William drawled, and Giles moved into the room, where William was lighting a lamp.  He was still completely naked, but at least covered to the waist by a sheet.

            Giles stared.  "Good lord," he said.

            "Nope, just me.  Although I can see how you might make that mistake.  What the bloody hell are you doing out here?"

            "I could ask you the same thing.  Your father-"

            "God, is the Colonel still alive?"

            "No, he died two years ago, still praying for your repentance."

            "Well, that was a bloody daft thing to do."

            "I take it you've left the army?"

            "Oh yes," William said with obvious relief.  "Years ago.  Didn't Pa tell you that?  I'm a deserter," he said with pride.

            "Well done," Xander said.  "You know each other?"

            "I was friends with his father," Giles said.

            "You're friends with everyone's father.  Giles, he's a highwayman.  He tried to hold up our coach but Perdita stopped him."

            "Bloody woman," William grumbled.

            "This Perdita you think might be my Elizabeth?"

            William perked up.  "What's that?"

            "My goddaughter.  She's gone missing and these two young people seem to think they might know where.  But it seems she has disappeared again."

            "Yeah, where did she go?" Willow asked William, who shrugged, looking pissy.

            "Buggered if I know.  Must've stolen away in the night."

            "She left her clothes," Willow said, "well, my clothes..."

            "And took mine," William snapped.

            Xander started laughing.  "Does this mean you'll have to wear a dress?"

            William glared at him moodily.

            "He can wear your spare stuff," Willow said.  "Xander, I think we ought to look for her."

            "Agreed," Giles said.  "She can't have got too far - and a woman in man's clothes can't be too hard to find."

            "Stand and deliver," said the tall man in the swirling black cloak.  There was a tree felled across the road and he sat on his horse before it.  The horse was huge, bigger than Perdita's, stamping its feet meanly and snorting in the darkness.  Beside it was another animal, no smaller, with another rider.  Both of them had pistols, and both had their faces covered.

            "Another highwayman?" Perdita said.  "Look, I don't have anything."

            "Why don't I believe you?"  His words were Irish accented.  "Get off your horse.  Slowly, now, don't do anything sudden.  These weapons can knock a man's head off."

            I know, Perdita thought, I'm carrying one.

            She got down off the horse and debated whether to tell him she was a woman.  After all, if he stripped her as William had said was common, then he'd soon find out.  But if he knew she was a woman, then his stripping might take on a very different agenda, and Perdita was exhausted from William's exploration of her, not to mention a little sore.  It was a good job she was riding astride, because she doubted she'd ever be able to winch her legs closed again.

            "Do you want this one?" the Irishman asked his companion, who got off his horse, handed his pistol over, and strode towards Perdita.  She stood firm.  The smaller highwayman whisked Perdita's cloak back over her shoulders and slid his hands under her coat to pat her body down.

            Then he stopped.

            He stood up and looked right at Perdita.

            There was a long pause.

            "Something wrong?" the Irishman asked.

            The other highwayman pulled off Perdita's hat and wrenched the queue from the back of her head.  Perdita's long blonde hair tumbled out over her shoulders.

            "It's a woman," the smaller man said in a husky voice.

            The Irishman leapt off his horse and came over.  The smaller man took the guns as the Irishman tilted up Perdita's chin to the moonlight.

            "_Buffy_?"


	6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

            "My name is Perdita," she said coldly.

            "The hell it is.  Darla, do you know who this is?"

            The small man took off his scarf and Perdita was astonished to see that he was a woman - small, blonde and pretty.

            "I'm gonna take a flying guess that it's Buffy?" she said.

            "This," the Irishman said proudly, ignoring her, "is Buffy."

            "Buffy," Darla repeated doubtfully.

            "The very same!  Buffy, darlin', what's with all the 'Perdita'?"

            "It's a name I'm going by," Perdita said, wondering what the hell was going on.  "Who are you?"

            The Irishman laughed delightedly and took off his mask.  "Angel, sweetheart.  Don't tell me you've forgotten?"

            "Funny thing," Perdita began, wondering if Angel was really his name.

            "Ah, hell, Darla, we're done for tonight.  Let's take Buffy home and show her what a real highwayman can do, eh?"

            "Highway_man_?" Darla said.

            "Well, you know.  Gang or whatever.  Come on."

            Perdita, no clue as to what was going on, allowed him to boost her up onto his horse and clasp his arms about her, a little too familiarly, and they rode off into the darkness, William's mare following on a lead rope.  No one said anything - the horses went fast over hard ground, their hooves thundering, and it wasn't until they reached the sight of a rather large mansion house that they slowed slightly.

            "What do you think?" Angel asked.

            "Whose is it?"

            He laughed against her back.  "Mine.  All mine."

            "And mine," Darla said, spurring her horse on a little faster.

            "Ignore her," Angel said, "she gets a little territorial."

            Perdita, who had been riding with Angel's solid chest behind her, his breath warm on her neck, and now his voice soft in her ear, could quite understand why.

            He dismounted and helped her down outside the house, and when they went in the place was light and bright with many candles.

            "Doyle," Angel yelled, and a skinny man came down the wide, ornate staircase.  "Get us a bath, will you?  And something to eat.  And then get a bath for this lady," he kissed Perdita's hand, "my guest."

            Doyle nodded and went through a small door to what Perdita guessed was the kitchen.  A few seconds later a woman with dark hair came out, looked her over, and said, "Another stray, Angel?"

            "She's an old friend of mine," Angel said.  "Take her upstairs, give her some sleep and  a bath and some clean clothes - something pretty - do her hair and whatever," he waved a hand, "and bring her down for breakfast in the morning."

            She bobbed a sarcastic curtsey.  "Do you have a name?" she asked.

            God knows, Perdita thought, but she said, "Perdita."

            "Right.  Perdita, come with me."

            In the farmhouse, Willow had half filled a metal tub with lukewarm water, as the effort of heating it all and lugging it upstairs was too much for her.  Here in this big house, several people brought up buckets of steaming water, to which the woman - who introduced herself as Cordelia - added scented herbs and pretty soaps.  She draped bits of muslin over the edges of the bath, for what purpose Perdita could only guess.  Probably just to make it prettier.  The bath itself had clawed feet and was made of enamel, not tin as the farmhouse bath had been.  It was surrounded with candles.

            "Do you need help undressing?" Cordelia asked, and Perdita shook her head.

            "I can manage."  She stripped off and stepped into the water, which felt really good, and Cordelia gave her some pretty soft soap to wash herself with.

            "So," she said, completely unembarrassed at sitting there while Perdita bathed, "how do you know Angel?"

            "Uh, we're old friends," Perdita said.

            "From Carolina?"

            "Uh, sure, why not."

            "He never went to the Carolinas," Cordelia said.  "Your name's not even Perdita, is it?  Do you know him at all?"

            Perdita paused in soaping her arm.  "You really want to know?"

            Cordelia nodded.

            "I have no idea who he is.  I don't remember ever meeting him.  I don't remember anything at all.  I have no memory older than two days.  I don't even know who I am."

            Cordelia looked at her for a bit, then she laughed.  "Okay, all right, you don't have to tell me."

            Perdita rolled her eyes.

            Cordelia washed her hair then dried it with a towel and gave Perdita a lawn nightgown and a silk house robe.  She took her from one extravagant room to another, where there was a big soft bed waiting, and left her for the night.

            Perdita didn't mean to sleep, but she did anyway, as soon as her head touched the pillow.

            "Oh, this is sodding ridiculous," William stormed.  "First she nicks my clothes and my horse, and now you're tying me up?"

            "Thought you enjoyed that?" Xander smirked.

            "Not when it's you doing it.  Your knots are sodding pathetic.  Where's my gun?"

            "Perdita has it."

            "Fantastic.  Little blonde girl with my gun and my horse and my clothes, riding around like a highwayman-"

            He stopped suddenly.

            "What are you ranting about?" Xander asked.

            "Nothing.  Just worried about the girl," William said thoughtfully.  "Red," he called, and when he got no answer, rolled his eyes and said, "Willow?"

            "Yes?"

            "Got a pen and paper?"

            "You want to write something?"

            "No, I want to make a sketch," he drawled.  "Yes, I want to bloody write something."

            "Well, you can't.  Your hands are all tied up."

            They were in Giles's small house, William once more tied to a chair in the kitchen while Miss McClay edged around making lunch for them all.  Giles was at church, and they planned to go out and start looking for Perdita when he came back.

            "Can you write?" William asked Willow.

            "Of course I can write."

            "Well, then write me a note."

            "To who?"

            "My lawyer," William glared at her.  "Just bloody write it, and get someone in the village to deliver it."

            Willow frowned, but she obtained some paper from Miss McClay and sat down at the table.  "What shall it say?"

            William thought about it a bit, then he said, "Have you seen the Slayer?"

            "That's it?"

            "That's it.  And sign it from me."

            "What's your surname?"

            "Sign it William the Bloody.  With three lines underneath."

            Xander made a face behind William's back, but Willow wrote it.  "And where does it need to go?"

            "Sunnydale House."

            "Where's that?"

            "Oh, about thirty miles due north.  Somewhere on the coast.  Send a kid along the beaches, he'll find it."

            Willow exchanged a look with Xander.  "Just sent it to Sunnydale House?"

            "For the head of the house.  It'll get there, Red.  Believe me, it'll be a huge help."

            "Who is the master of this house?" Xander demanded.

            "Never you mind.  Look, whelp, I'm doing more to find the girl than you are."

            "By looking for the man who got her into all this trouble."

            William just smiled.  "You want to find out or not?"

            Miss McClay held her hand out for the note.  "I'll take it into the village, if you like."

            "I was going to go," Willow said, "but I guess you'll know better who to give it to."

            "W-we could go together?" Miss McClay suggested shyly.

            Willow smiled delightedly.  "Yes.  Good idea.  Together.  Just let me get my shawl..."

            The two girls left, and Xander leaned over the table, glaring at William.

            "So," he said, as menacingly as he could.

            "So," William replied, slightly nonplussed.

            "Who's the master of Sunnydale House?"

            "Do you think those two are interested in each other?" William asked, nodding towards the door Willow and Miss McClay had gone out.

            "Interested?  What do you mean?"

            "I mean, kid, like you're interested in Perdita."  He watched the look of horror on Xander's face.  "If it was good enough for the Romans..." he said.

            "That's blasphemous!"

            "Yes, 'cos I care about that so much."

            Xander opened his mouth to speak, but right then Giles came back in, looking weary, the house filled with the high chatter of a woman's voice behind him.

            "...All I'm saying is, they say greed is a deadly sin.  But, isn't greed the same as gluttony?  And isn't it then greedy to have two of the same sin?"

            "Greed is wanting more," Giles explained, "gluttony is taking it."

            "It's still the same thing.  And how can it be bad to want more?  I want more money from my store.  Why is that bad?"

            Giles took off his gloves and hat and laid them on the table.  "Alexander Harris, this is my niece, Anya Jenkins.  She runs the dry goods store in the town and she has a very direct way of talking."

            Anya took off her wide brimmed hat and shook out glossy curls.  She gave Xander a wide smile and extended her hand.

            Xander stared.

            "You could take her hand," William prompted, and Anya giggled.

            Xander took her hand, covered in white lace, and kissed it.

            William rolled his eyes.

            "Where is Miss Rosenberg?" Giles asked.  "And Tara?"

            "Tara?"

            "Miss McClay."

            "They went to deliver a note to someone.  In the village."

            "Platonically," William added, watching Xander for his reaction and laughing when he realised the boy had no idea what platonic meant.

            "Who's this?" Anya asked with no preamble, flicking a glance at William.

            "Our hostage," Xander said proudly.  "He attacked us so we captured him."

            "And then I escaped," William pointed out.

            "And then you came back.  How dumb are you?"

            "I came back for her," William said.  "I got more out of her than any of you."

            "Yes," Giles said, polishing his glasses, "I'm not sure I needed to hear that."

            In the morning Cordelia woke Perdita, gave her warm water to wash, brushed out Perdita's long hair and curled it with a hot iron.  She dressed Perdita in many layers of silk and satin, ending with a beautiful gown in shades of pink, and fastened a ribbon around her neck.

            "You know, you're quite pretty with all the horse dirt washed off you," she said.

            "Thanks."

            "Don't mention it.  Angel likes pretty girls."

            "That girl Darla, is she..."

            "Oh, yeah.  They're always at it.  You can go down to breakfast now, but they'll probably not even be out of bed yet."

            Perdita felt her lip curl, but then she remembered last night with William, and blushed.  She knew he'd been right that it hadn't been her first time, but did any woman have a right to enjoy it that much?  Maybe she wasn't a whore from necessity.  Maybe she wanted to do it.

            She had a sudden urge to find a church and confess.  And then she wondered if she was Catholic or not.  And then she wondered if it mattered.

            Cordelia took her downstairs to a pretty room where Angel and Darla sat eating breakfast.  A servant poured some coffee for her and offered sweetmeats, and Perdita found she was ravenous.

            "Not lost your appetite then," Angel laughed.

            She shook her head.

            "Good haul last night?"

            She looked up questioningly.

            "Did you get anything good?" Darla asked in her sweet, husky voice.  "Or has it all been redistributed already?"

            Oh, I got something good, Perdita thought, but she just smiled.  "Did you?"

            "Well," Angel took her hand and kissed her knuckles, "I got you."

            Darla rolled her eyes.  "I'm going to check on the girl," she said, and got up to leave.

            "You have a daughter?" Perdita asked politely.

            "No - no, this girl we found a few nights ago.  Half dead, beaten, raped, talking complete nonsense.  Can't even get a name out of her."

            "Sounds familiar," Perdita muttered.

            "Keeps going on about stars," Angel mused.  "We're looking after her for now, but I think if she doesn't improve she'll have to go to a convent.  It's the only place for her."

            Perdita nodded, something ticking over in her mind.  "Can I see her?"

            "She's insane, darlin'."

            "I know, I just - I just want to see her."

            He shrugged and lifted a hand, and when Doyle came forward, said, "Take Buffy to see Drusilla."

            Buffy, Perdita thought.  Why does he keep calling me Buffy?  Is that who I am?  That's not a name.  It's the sort of thing you might call a fluffy puppy or a - or a lady of ill repute.  Hmm.

            Doyle took her up to the first floor and into a pretty bedroom, where she found Darla and Cordelia trying to get someone to drink a cup of medicine.  She was sitting in the middle of the bed, rocking, wearing a red silk housecoat, her hair loose, and Perdita shuddered, because the girl had the strangest eyes she'd ever seen.  Bright blue and quite vacant, they wandered over Perdita, saw nothing of interest, and fazed back into nothing-land.

            "Where did you find her?" she asked, and Darla looked up.

            "About thirty miles south of here.  Just wandering around in the middle of the night in a bloody nightgown."  Darla pushed up the girl's sleeve to show an arm covered in bruises and gashes.  "She's like this all over.  Especially here," she pointed to the girl's breasts and thighs.  "Burned and scratched.  Someone really tortured her.  I'm amazed she could stand."

            "It's amazing the strength you find," Perdita said.  "Darla, can I talk to you?"

            The blonde woman got up and led Perdita into the next room.  "Is it about Angel?  'Cos I know you two had a thing a while back, but I'm with him now."

            Perdita nodded slowly.  "It's about Drusilla.  That's what Angel called her...?"

            "The name seemed to fit."

            "I found a house about thirty miles south of here where everyone had been murdered - parents and a grown-up son.  There was another room that was covered in blood, girl's clothes, but there was no girl.  We - I wondered where she'd gone."

            "You think that might be her?"

            "I think it might be."

            Darla nodded and tapped her rosebud mouth with the fan dangling from her wrist.  She was dressed in a silk gown with wide black and silver stripes - it might have looked ridiculous, but on her tiny body, with her pretty face, the effect was very striking.

            "I'll tell Angel," she said, and went to the door to go back downstairs, but right then it opened and Doyle came in.

            "Angel wants you," he said, and Darla winked.

            "He always wants me."

            She swayed away and followed Doyle down the stairs.  Angel was standing in the big lobby, a grubby letter in his hand.

            "I just got a letter from William the Bloody," he said.

            "Our very own Spike?"

            "None other.  And you'll never guess what he wants."

            "A half share in all our profits?"

            Angel showed her the letter.  Darla clapped her hands in delight.

            "Can I go and get him?"

            "Darlin', you read my mind."

            "Where's she going?" Perdita asked, watching Darla gallop away in her men's clothes.

            "Oh, just to see an old friend.  Buffy, darlin', why don't you come and have a drink with me?"

            "I'm not sure if I drink," Perdita said, which made Angel laugh.  "Why do you keep calling me Buffy?"

            "That's your name, isn't it?"

            "Is it?"

            "Oh, I'm sorry.  Miss Elizabeth."

            "I'm confused."

            He put his arm companionably around her shoulders and led her into the drawing room, lit against the gloom outside with candles everywhere.  It wasn't dark yet, but the sky was overcast, threatening to rain.  Darla would get soaked on her trip to see her friend.

            Angel poured two drinks and downed his.  "Go on," he said, "you used to like it."

            She took a sip.

            "Not like that, throw it back."

            She did as she was told, and the whisky burned her throat.

            "I used to like _that_?" she croaked.

            "Buffy, what's the matter?  You're acting like you don't know who you are."

            She looked up at him.

            "You don't know who you are?" Angel's eyes were wide.

            "Um.  Well.  No.  Not... as such."

            "Did you fall and hit your head?"

            "Possibly."

            "Is that why you were saying your name is Perdita?"

            "It means Lost One."

            Angel just nodded in agreement.  He didn't look like he'd ever read Shakespeare.  "What do you remember?"

            She sighed.  "I woke up on a beach three nights ago.  I guess it was a shipwreck - there was debris and other," she exhaled, "other bodies.  I didn't find anyone alive."

            "You don't remember how you got there?"

            She shook her head.

            Angel frowned.  "There was a shipwreck three nights ago," he said.  "I heard there were no survivors.  But what were you doing on it?"

            "I have no idea."

            "Your stomping ground was Virginia."

            "That's quite a long way..."

            He nodded.  "I'll write your mother."

            "I have a mother?"

            "Everyone has a mother," Angel laughed.  "Let's just say yours doesn't exactly approve of me."

            "You are a highwayman."

            "That I am."

            She paused, toying with her glass.  "Can I ask you something?"

            "Anything."

            "How do you even know me?"

            Angel downed another shot of whisky and came over, pulled her to her feet and looked down at her speculatively.  He was quite a bit taller than her, his eyes deep and dark.  He was a very good looking man.

            "I taught you everything you know," he said.  "Well, everything you knew."

            "You did?" she whispered.  "About what?"

            "Life.  Men.  Sex.  Highway robbery."

            That's pretty much all bases covered, she thought.  "Sex?"

            He grinned.  "Knew you'd find the important bit.  Yeah."  He stroked her face.  "Don't you remember?  We had a fine old time, you and me.  You," his lips brushed her cheek, "tasted like chocolate."

            Giles and Xander had gone out looking for Perdita, leaving the girls in charge of William.  Xander had been reluctant to leave them, especially Anya, but he was assured by Giles that she could take care of herself.

            Currently she was dozing with her head on the table, an axe in her hands.

            Willow and Tara sat at the other end of the table, giggling with each other.  "How about this one," Willow said, and assumed a pious expression.  "'_Tout est pour le mieux, dans le meilleur des mondes possibles_.'"

            William rolled his eyes.

            "I don't know," Tara blushed, "but it sounds pretty."

            "It means, All is for the best, in the best of all possible worlds," Willow said.

            "Voltaire," William said.  "Poncy bugger."

            "You think everyone's a poncy bugger," Willow scolded.

            "All the ones you're quoting are."

            "All right, then, quote me someone who isn't."

            He thought a bit.  "Robert Burton.  'England is a paradise for women, and hell for horses.  Italy a paradise for horses, hell for women.'"

            Tara giggled.

            "Why is England a paradise for women?" Willow asked archly.  "Wasn't it the English who conquered America and repressed us all?"

            "If it wasn't for the English, you'd be speaking French," William said.

            "She does speak French," Tara said bravely.

            "'Oh, brave new world, that has such people in't,'" William said sarcastically.

            "The Tempest," Willow said smugly.

            "Very appropriate," Tara agreed.

            "'This happy breed of men, this little world, this precious stone set in the silver sea...'"

            Willow looked suspicious.

            "'This blessed plot, this earth, this Realm, this England,'" William added, cocking an eyebrow at her.

            "Shakespeare was an idiot."

            "Half an hour ago you said he was the only decent thing to come out of England."

            "Well, he was still English."

            "And that makes him evil because...."

            Willow didn't get a chance to answer, because the door suddenly slammed wide open and a flurry of leaves blew in.  The girls started in surprise, Anya woke up with a gasp and waved the axe vaguely at the door.

            "I'll get you before you get me," said a sweet voice, and William's head snapped up.

            "Darla?"

            "Did we really need to tie them up?" she asked as they galloped away over the dark, rain-lashed fields.

            "Payback," William said.  "Besides, it was kinda fun, tying three girls together."

            "Pervert."

            "Like you never strip-search unnecessarily."

            Darla grinned, but said nothing.

            The rain was coming down hard and they were both saturated by the time they reached Angel's mansion.  William untied his hair and shook his head as he walked in, catching his wet hair and slicking it back again, shrugging off his soaked leather coat and chucking it at Doyle, all in a few easy motions.

            "So-" he began, then the words caught and died in his throat as he saw someone come down the stairs, slowly, with fluid steps.  She was wearing a brilliant blood red dress in gleaming brocade, trimmed with lace that was black instead of the usual red.  The stomacher and petticoat were also black, shining satin with intricate patterns of fine red lace.  Her golden hair was piled up on her head, leaving just a few fat curls to trail over her creamy shoulders, down to her plump cleavage.

            Her eyes were languid, her lips red and inviting.  William could hardly breathe.  Then she parted those beautiful lips.

            "William."

            He stared a little harder.  "_Perdita_?"

            Angel came out of the drawing room.  "Spike!"

            Her green eyes never moved, even as she corrected, "Buffy."

            In confusion, William glanced at Angel.  "Liam?"

            Darla rolled her eyes.  "This is bordering on ridiculous," she said, snapping her fingers in front of William's eyes.  "William, this is Buffy.  Perdita, this is Spike.  Buffy, this is Liam."

            They all blinked at her.

            "Aren't nicknames fun?"

            "So are you really just Darla?" Buffy asked.

            Darla put her finger to her lips.  "I'll never tell."


	7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

            Buffy came down the last few steps, the train of her gown trailing behind her.  "Spike?"

            William nodded cautiously.  "Old nickname," he said.  "Buffy?"

            "Old name."

            "She said you christened her Perdita," Angel said.

            "Seemed like a good idea at the time."  His eyes were still on Buffy.  "Who are you?"

            Her eyes were steady, her voice calm.  "I'm the Slayer."

            He shook his head.  "I didn't - I mean I thought I - the way you - but I never - you're _really_ the Slayer?"

            She nodded.

            "Bloody hell."

            Cordelia appeared with a bottle and a shot glass, which she filled and handed wordlessly to William.  He emptied it and held it out for more.

            "Can I talk to you?"

            Buffy nodded and turned back up the stairs.  William glanced at Angel and Darla, who leered suggestively, and Doyle and Cordelia, who just rolled their eyes, and followed her.

            She took him to a beautiful bedroom, shut the door, and leaned against it, her eyes closed.

            "Buffy?"

            She looked at him.

            "Are you alright?"

            She sighed.  "William-" she began, and then stopped.  "Spike?"

            "William is fine.  Will will do."

            She gave him a small smile.  "See, at least you can choose.  In the last three days I've had three new names.  If I go to another town, what will I be there?"

            "Some people would love to have no name."

            "People like you, you mean?  People like me?"

            He watched her carefully.  "Your strength, your skill, your attitude.  I should have known... I realised this morning, when you - why did you take my clothes?"

            "Couldn't ride so well in mine.  And I didn't want to be accused of stealing Willow's."

            He stared.  "You wouldn't steal hers, but you'd nick mine?"

            "Yours were probably stolen anyway."

            "The hell they were!"  He calmed himself.  "Look, it doesn't matter.  I was worried about you."

            "You knew I was the Slayer, and you were worried about me?"

            "Well, I didn't know then.  I only suspected... I didn't know for sure until Darla brought me here."

            "Ah, yes."

            He raised his eyebrows.  "Yes?"

            "Darla."

            "Darla?"

            "Stop repeating what I say."  Buffy crossed the room, rubbing at her temples.  "How do you know Angel and Darla?"

            "Old friends.  They seem to know you."

            "Angel does.  I think Darla came on the scene after me."

            William's eyebrows went up again.  "On what scene?  Were you and Angel-?"

            "So he tells me."

            "Bloody hell!"  William pulled at the tailcoat he was still wearing - it was very wet around the collar where his coat had let drips in.  In fact, all his clothes were wet, his feet were frozen, all he really wanted was a hot bath.  And maybe a hot Buffy, too.

            "What are you doing?"

            "I'm soaked, love.  Don't want me to catch a chill, do you?"

            She shrugged.

            "Hey, what did I do to you?"

            She dropped her eyes.

            "If this is about maidenly virtues-"

            "It's not," she said.  "But it could have been."

            William was confused.  He carried on undressing, because that was still pertinent, but he wasn't sure what to say.  Instead he put his head out of the door, grabbed the nearest servant, and requested a hot bath.  Then he came back in, and Buffy was still standing there, chewing her lip.

            "You didn't know I wasn't a virgin," she said.  "You were taking advantage of me."

            "Excuse me," William chucked his shirt on the pile of wet clothing, "I seem to remember you doing a fair bit of taking yourself."

            Her cheeks turned pink.

            "Oh, now that's precious," William said.  "Now she's blushing."

            "Damn right I am!  I can't believe I let you-"

            "Let me?" William stared at her.  "Most of the time you were _making_ me."

            Buffy tried hard not to stare at his naked torso.  She'd had the image fastened securely behind her eyeballs ever since she'd first seen it.  Now it was making thought rather... hard...

            He sat down on the bed and pulled off his boots.  At least she hadn't stolen them - the whelp's shoes would never have fit.  And if he'd worn shoes, he'd have to have worn stockings, and William really wasn't big on stockings.

            "Why did you run?" he asked.

            She lifted her shoulders and let them fall.  "I... I don't know.  I couldn't stay."

            William looked up and pinned his gaze on her.  "Are you ashamed?"

            Silence, then she said in a tiny whisper, "Yes."

            He got up, strode over, grabbed her by the shoulders.  "You're ashamed of me?"

            "No," she shook her head, "not of you.  Of me."

            "Why?"

            "I behaved - I behaved like a whore.  For all I know I could be a whore."

            "You're not," he released her.

            "And how do you know?  Let me guess - you suddenly remember me, too?"

            "I do remember you," William said, "I remember last night and I'll never forget it.  You were nothing like a whore."

            "Known a few, have you?"

            "Yeah."

            Fear flashed in her eyes, and he gave a small, mocking laugh.  "Don't worry, I don't have anything."

            A knock on the door signalled the first few buckets of water and the tub, and both William and Buffy stood back as it was all set up.  Cordelia brought in towels and fresh clothes, which made William sneer slightly, knowing they'd be Angel's and far too big for him.

            And then the servants were gone, and it was just Buffy, and a semi-naked William.  And then he took his breeches off, and he wasn't just semi-naked any more.

            He got into the bath and closed his eyes in bliss.  Heat and cleanliness.  So basic, so wonderful.  So wonderful they really ought to be shared.

            "Care to join me?"

            God, yes, Buffy thought, but she shook her head rapidly.  She leapt at the sideboard and grabbed the decanter there, drinking straight from it and slamming it back down with a thud.  "No.  I should, uh," she trailed off as he opened his eyes and looked at her, his face inviting.

            "Sure?"

            "I took a bath yesterday."

            "It's not going to kill you."

            Buffy swallowed.  Damn, he looked fine.  But she didn't need to distract herself with him.  She needed to go and talk to Angel and find out as much about herself as she could, and then she needed to go and find that schoolteacher and-

            "It's good for what ails you," William said, eyes half-shut, sleepy, seductive.

            "I-"

            "I'll scrub your back," he offered, and a small laugh escaped Buffy.

            "Is that all you'll scrub?"

            His eyes opened fully.  "What else did you have in mind?"

            Buffy couldn't possibly tell him.  She honestly couldn't, because she didn't know the names for most of the places she wanted him to touch her.  Her face got hot.  All of her was getting hot.  Probably she should take some clothes off.  This dress of Darla's was awfully restricting.  Too small.

            "You all right there, pet?" William cocked his head at her.  "You look a little," his eyes trailed down over her delightfully heaving bosom, "flushed."

            "I'm too hot," Buffy mumbled, sure it was the alcohol flooding her veins with heat, and not him.

            He crooked a finger at her, and she went over to the bathtub.  William beckoned her even closer, and she knelt down and put her ear to him as he whispered, "Maybe you should get out of that frock.  Lot of heavy fabric there to make you all warm."

            "I, er," Buffy could feel the heat from his bath-warmed body seeping out to her.  Through the herbs in the water she could see his hard chest, tight, flat stomach, and then the darker curls between his legs.  She willed her eyes not to look any further.

            They disobeyed.

            "You want me to help you with that?" William offered, and Buffy thought, I was just about to ask you the same thing.

            His hand reached out and trailed down the red and black stomacher.

            "This is an amazing dress," he murmured.

            "It's, uh, Darla's..."

            "Hmm.  Well, if it's someone else's, then really you ought to be very careful about keeping it nice and clean, and dry..."

            Buffy wholeheartedly agreed.  William had already undone a couple of the catches on the front of her bodice, and she helped him unfasten a few more.  Then a few more.  Then she pushed the dress off her body, stepped out of it and flung it on the bed.

            "There," she said, "perfectly safe."

            William looked up at her shoulders, bared by the deep red corset, her arms, soft breasts, bare throat enhanced by a jewelled choker, and thought to himself that the dress might be safe, but she wasn't.

            He held out his hand, and she came back, back to her knees by the bath, and when he curved his arm around the back of her soft neck and pulled her to him, she kissed him readily.  Such a sweet, soft mouth.  Slight taste of brandy.  Tart and delicious.

            Buffy's hand was on his shoulder, his chest, caressing the damp skin.  And then it slid down under the hot water.  And then William's sleepy eyes flew open and Buffy's mouth slipped down to his neck and her teeth gently nipped his skin while her fingers closed around his hard length and stroked it.

            "God, Perdi-" her head flew up.  "Buffy," William corrected himself.  "Buffy.  The Slayer.  My delicious, delightful Slayer.  Buffy," his hand tangled in the sweat-dampened tendrils at the back of her neck, and he pulled her back to kiss him.  His other hand moved up to caress the silk of the corset, feel the hard lines of whalebone underneath, then the softness of her breast above.  She was breathing so hard she was nearly falling out of the corset.

            He just helped her a little.

            He rolled her hard nipple between his fingers and she let out a soft gasp against his mouth.  He leaned over and took the little pink bud between his teeth, and she hissed with pleasure, moving her hand faster under the water.  William groaned and sucked hard on her nipple, and she held him to her, stroking, pumping, harder, faster.

            "Oh, God," William gasped, and his whole body jerked, "Buffy-"

            She lifted his head and kissed him again as his whole body softened and he almost slid down under the water.

            "That's the way to drown a man," she observed, smiling coyly, and William looked up at her.  Flushed and glistening, her hair in glorious disarray, one tight, deep pink nipple peeping out from over the top of that wicked corset.  Her lips swollen and red.

            William stood up suddenly, the water sloshing wildly, and Buffy skidded backwards away from it.  Dripping all over the floor and all over her, he pulled her to her feet, moulded her body against his, and kissed her hard and deep.  She protested at first - he was completely soaking her - but it didn't last long, and before the kiss was broken Buffy found herself on her back on the bed.

            "Stupid dress," she shoved it to the floor, and William laughed.  He ran his hands up her legs, under her petticoats, cupped her bare bottom and stroked her thighs.  She quivered under him and he laid a kiss on the soft flesh of her exposed breast.

            His hand slipped around to finger the curls between her legs.

            "My turn," he whispered, and Buffy flinched with pleasure as his finger slid between her wet folds.  He stroked her gently, licking at her nipple, and she closed her eyes.

            Then his head left her breast and his tongue darted out and licked her thigh, and Buffy found herself shaking with expectation.

            When his tongue plunged inside her she let out a cry.  "Oh, God that's good," and William smiled against her soft, slippery flesh.  If she thought that was good, then he'd love to hear what she had to say next.

            He moved his tongue up to her hard, swollen clitoris and flicked it gently.  She moaned, and he was disappointed.  Just a moan?  He wanted words.  He wanted praise.  He wanted superlatives.

            Gently, expertly, he began to make love to that little bundle of nerve endings, while Buffy writhed and heaved beneath him.  Restricted by the corset, she was sucking in sharp breaths, little gasps of pleasure, letting out small whimpers.

            Not good enough.

            William frowned, and brought his hand back into play.

            He slipped one finger inside her, then rapidly another, and was rewarded with a surprised, "Oh!"

            Better, he thought.  Now, where is it...?

            He knew he'd found that sweet spot inside her when she let out a long, low moan.  "Oh, God, William.  That's-" her voice suddenly rose to a squeak, "that's so _good_!"

            And? William thought, circling her clitoris with his tongue.

            "That's - you're making me - oh my _God_!"

            Her hands moved down to his head, clenched his skull through his hair, held him to her.

            "Don't stop.  Don't ever stop, William, Spike, Will - that's it!" she shrieked as he drove another finger inside her, curving them all towards her front, stroking her from the inside.  "You're going to - make me - William - I can't - so good - harder - _harder_ - that's - oh, yes!  Oh, God, God, God - _Will_!"

            Damn right, William thought as her salty wetness flooded his mouth.  It's me down here, not Him.

            He licked her a bit more, like an animal cleaning his mate, then lifted his head and looked at her.  Her breasts rose and fell wildly.  Her head was back, her hair spilled all over the pillows.  Her eyes were closed.

            "You still awake there?"

            A small smile touched her bitten lips.  "Not even sure if I'm still alive."

            He grinned and moved back up her body, licking her nipple.  She twitched and moaned softly.  "Still alive," he said

            "Oh.  Good."

            William grinned.  "Did you enjoy that?" he asked politely, settling beside her.

            Wordlessly, she nodded, her eyes opening and filling with gratitude.  "That was amazing."

            There was his superlative praise.  William stretched like a cat, feeling smug.

            "There is one problem, though," he said, and she looked startled.

            "What?"

            He took her hand and slid it down his stomach.  Buffy looked down and saw how hard he was.

            "Oh," she said.  "Well, I suppose something must be done about that."

            "I suppose so," he agreed.  "What do you have in mind?"

            Buffy looked back up at him, her eyes met his, and she smiled so wickedly William was almost afraid.

            Almost.

            Angel winced as something crashed against the floor above his head.  "They better not be breaking my furniture," he grumbled.

            "Why?" Cordelia said as she poured some wine in his glass.  "You do it all the time."

            "Yes, but-" he caught Darla's eye, and she was grinning.  "It's still not the nicest of thoughts."

            "What?  Big bad Spike ravishing your tiny precious Buffy?" Darla said.  "You need to stop being so jealous, my love."

            "She's right," Cordelia said.  "It's been years since you had Buffy."

            "She's not yours any more."

            "I know that," Angel said, irritated.  "I just still don't like to think of her being - he's so - you know, he's just not gentle and-"

            "He can be," Darla said, her eyes misting slightly.  Cordelia looked very amused.  Angel looked shocked.

            "You - and William?"

            "Who do you think called him Spike?"

            "I thought that was an army nickname."

            "Well, that's how it started," Darla purred.

            Angel drained his wine.  "I think I need another drink," he said.

            William lay on his side, watching the girl beside him sleep, her hands up by her face, her curvy little backside pressed up against him.  He had one arm wrapped around her, marvelling at the tight, flat muscles in her stomach.  He should have guessed it from that.  What kind of girl had muscles like that?  Certainly not any of the ones he'd ever been with.  There were soft girls, and plump girls, and skinny girls, and downright bony girls - like shagging a skeleton.  Ugh.  And then there was Buffy.  His Lost One.  Strong and hard and soft and beautiful.

            He ran his hand over her hip and she snuggled against him, wriggling that luscious bottom, and Will sucked in a breath.  Maybe that had been less of a good idea.  Tight little Slayer bottom plus sensitive erectile flesh equaled wake-up time.  For both of them.

            He gently brushed the soft hair away from her neck and pressed his lips softly against the skin there.  Another little wriggle, and a sigh this time, too.  How awake was she?

            He let his hand trail down from her neck to her breast and lazily stroke one soft pink nipple.  Not soft for long though: it hardened deliciously under his fingers.  And it wasn't the only thing getting harder.  William shifted against her, nestling his growing erection in the hollow between her legs and buttocks, and ran his finger in a circle around her nipple.  Probably the gentlemanly thing to do would be to roll away and take care of this by himself, but William had never really enjoyed being much of a gentleman.

            He gently licked her earlobe and Buffy sighed again, her fingers clenching the pillow by her face.  Encouraged, William nibbled her ear.

            Buffy frowned lightly and wriggled her legs together.  Will grinned.  He could feel how hot she was getting down there.  Hot and damp.  Delicious.

            He had one hand on one of her nipples, the other trapped under her head, and he was therefore terribly surprised to see another hand one Buffy's other breast.

            Her own hand.

            Oh God, this was nearly too much.

            Much as the prospect excited him, William couldn't let himself slip inside her without her being fully awake.  If she wasn't awake she couldn't consent, and if she couldn't consent then it was pretty much rape in William's book.  And he didn't do rape.  He'd never had to force a woman to do anything, and the thought of it made him dreadfully angry.  And very sad.

            So he whispered, "Buffy," in her ear, before he got carried away and woke her up slightly more unpleasantly.  He brought his hand up to squeeze her shoulder.  "Buffy... love..."

            This time she made a little moan, and it sounded to Will's lust-addled brain like, "Spike..."

            He nibbled her neck.  She grabbed his hand and pushed it back down to her breast.  William complied happily, stroking and kneading the soft flesh, the hard, taut nipple, feeling growing wetness seeping between her legs.  She wasn't asleep any more.  And she damn well wanted him.

            Her own hand slipped down to part her thighs, touch her own flesh, and William had to close his eyes or he'd come right there and then.  But then her fingers moved further back, brushing his hard throbbing-

            "Oh God," he muttered, and rubbed himself against her.  Buffy lifted her upper leg, parting her folds for him, inviting him in.

            Grateful, desperate, he slid up inside her.  God, she felt good.  All hot and tight, slick and soft.  Her little bottom nestled against his stomach and William's hand trailed to her hip, holding her back against him as he started to thrust slowly in and out of her.

            It wasn't fast and hard and frantic like it had been before.  Will was still pretty sleepy and he wasn't a hundred percent sure whether Buffy knew what she was doing, or if she thought she was dreaming.  He was _reasonably_ sure she was mostly awake.

            Reasonably.

            She was so soft and warm against him.  Her hips moved in time with his, her hand at first over his, on her hip, and then moving further up, touching her own breast.  Tentatively at first, then with more confidence, pinching and stroking the nipple.  Will watched, enthralled, and then realised that her other hand was still down there, between her legs, stroking her own slick flesh.

            It was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen.  And he'd been to Paris.

            His hand slid down from her hip to cover her own wet fingers, stroking with her, and after a while her hand fell away, conceding to his own, much more skilled fingers.  She reached back and gripped his hip, his buttock, pushing him deeper into her.

            He knew he was hitting that sweet spot inside her, knew it even without her quickening breaths and bucking hips.  He gently pinched her clitoris and she let out a silent gasp, tightening around him.

            He did it again.  Her fingers dug into his buttock.

            He did it again.  Her hand clenched her own breast.

            This time Will syncronised his efforts, pinching and thrusting at the same time, his teeth inadvertently sinking into her shoulder.  He was rewarded with a sucked in breath, so sharp it was nearly a shriek, and her muscles convulsing around him.

            Relaxing his grip on her, he contritely licked the place he'd bitten her and rocked her harder, still thrusting inside her.  He was getting closer, faster, no longer sleepy and gentle.  She still held him to her, still tight around him, and it didn't take long for him to fall over the edge, spurting into her, hot and hard.

            They lay still for a few moments, both breathing hard, and it occurred to William that neither of them had said a word since he slipped inside her.  In fact, apart from those few tentative enquiries, they hadn't spoken at all.

            Her eyes were still closed.

            "Buffy," he said softly, and she sighed and wriggled against him again.

            "That's the nicest wake-up call I can ever remember," she mumbled sleepily.

            "I'll take that as a compliment," Will laughed softly, bringing his arm up to hold her by the waist again, pulling her against him, soft and warm and delightful.

            "As it was intended."

            "Mmm," he nuzzled her neck.

            "Will," she broke the embrace, pulling away from him, cold air rushing in to take her place, "what time is it?"

            He shrugged lazily, stretching out like a cat.  "Dunno, love."  He glanced at the long windows, where he could see the glow of the moon.  The lamps they'd lit earlier had all burned down low by now, filling the room with a soft, seductive light.  "Probably pretty late.  We both slept for a while."

            Buffy listened.  "I think everyone's gone to sleep."

            "Probably," he agreed, watching her as she ran her fingers through her somewhat tangled hair.  She should always have her hair like that, he decided.  Loose and tousled, to frame her slightly flushed face, bitten lips, drowsy eyes.  She got up and went over to the windows, glancing at the moon before she pulled the curtains to, stretching out those clever little muscles of hers, the velvet of the drapes brushing the velvet of her skin, her lean thighs, her soft breasts, her curvy little rear...

            God, she was making him hard again.

            "Come back to bed, love," he held out an arm, and she looked back at him, lithe and tempting in the moonlight.

            "What will they think?" she whispered, pulling the last curtain closed.

            "Who?"

            "Angel, and Darla.  We just... We ran up here, hours ago, and now-"

            Will laughed.  "I really don't think they'll be too fussed, love," he said, and Buffy remembered Cordelia saying how Angel and Darla usually hardly got out of bed.  Her cheeks flushed.  "You look... _so_ beautiful," William added in a low, husky voice, and Buffy felt her hard nipples tighten just a little bit more.

            She ran back to the bed and fastened her lips to his.  "You too," she mumbled against his mouth, and her hands were already exploring his beautiful body.


	8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

            "Well, if this isn't every man's fantasy, I don't know what is," Xander stood in the door, looking over Willow, Tara and Anya, who were all tied back to back, wearing only their chemises.  They were all gagged, and all looked furious.

            "Mr. Harris, is that really appropriate?" Giles said, stepping forward and taking Anya's axe to cut the ropes.

            Xander started pulling gags off, starting with Anya's, hoping for a sweet smile.  Instead she glared at him and started yelling about bloody men.  Quickly, he stepped away and freed Willow and Tara.

            "What happened?"

            "William," Willow flexed her arms.  "Some woman turned up and threatened us with a musket and set him free.  Then she lassoed us all together and gagged us and they rode off.  I'm afraid they took your horse," she added to Giles.

            "Another insane woman with a gun?" Xander said.

            "How many do you know?" Anya asked.

            "What did she look like?" Giles asked.

            "She was small..."

            "Pretty..."

            "Blonde hair..."

            "Men's clothes..."

            "Are you sure she was a woman?" Giles asked, and Willow said, "Oh yeah."

            There was silence for a few seconds.  Willow blushed hotly.  Giles cleared his throat.

            "Are any of you hurt?"

            "I think I have rope burns," Anya rubbed her stomach, then looked up at Xander, and held out her arm so he could inspect her flawless shoulder.  "Does that look sore to you?"

            Xander's eyes glazed over.  "It looks perfect."

            She smiled, showing him a perfect pair of dimples.

            Giles rolled his eyes.  "Well, I don't suppose there's any chance of us getting him back," he said.

            "Why would we want to?" Willow said.  "He was a highwayman"

            "Yes, but he knew this P-Perdita who we think might be Elizabeth," Tara said.  "He might know where she is."

            "But how do we find him?" Anya asked, tearing her eyes away from Xander.

            They all looked at each other.

            "We'll start asking in the morning," Giles said wearily.  "For now, perhaps we should all try and get some sleep.  And you three, please, put something on."

            "I need to know," Buffy said to Angel next morning at breakfast.  "Everything about myself.  Whatever you can tell me.  It might help jog my memory."

            Angel pushed a piece of bacon around on his plate.  "Starting?"

            "When did we meet?"

            He thought about it.  "You'd have been about sixteen.  You were out riding, early morning, before anyone else was awake.  And I was on my way home with a nice haul.  You looked at me, and I looked at you, and you just rode off."

            "Why didn't you try and rob me?"

            He gave her a disarming smile.  "Because what I wanted from you wasn't your money."

            Buffy blushed.

            "Did you-" she was horribly embarrassed, "did you get it?"

            He nodded slowly.

            Darla grinned.  "Are you sure you don't remember that?" she asked.  "It's quite something to forget."

            Buffy shook her head.  "I'm sorry."

            "So am I," Angel said.  "Perhaps I should remind you."

            "And then I'll kill you," Will said, the first time he'd spoken.

            "Calm down," Darla said.  "You know, Buffy, it's a shame you don't remember.  A comparison might have been fun."

            "Don't you dare," Will said.

            Cordelia came in and paused at the door.  "My God," she said, "I can hardly breathe in here."

            "What's wrong?" Buffy asked.

            "You four.  The air is thick with lust."

            "Actually, that's bacon-"

            She rolled her eyes and handed a letter to Angel.  He opened it, frowned, and then said to Will, "Will you come into my study?"

            Will frowned too.  He touched Buffy's hand, then rose to his feet and followed Angel from the room.  She watched him, admiring the fluid way he moved, and Darla had to click her fingers in front of Buffy's face to get her attention.

            "He had that effect on me," she said, and Buffy stared.

            "You - and Will-?"

            Darla grinned.  "Don't tell Angel, but he might have got competition."

            "No," Buffy said firmly, "he hasn't.  You go anywhere near Will and I'll cut your fingers off."

            Darla raised her eyebrows.  "I didn't realise it was that big."

            This time it was Buffy's turn to grin.

            "I meant," Darla laughed, "what you two have.  How long have you known each other?"

            Buffy sighed.  "A couple of days.  Darla - did you know me?  I mean, before-?"

            "No.  He talks about you a lot though.  The Slayer.  You were a big thing in his life."

            "Was I?  Were we... Were we together a long time?"

            "I think it was a couple of years."

            Buffy was shocked.  "And we were lovers, as well as partners?"

            "You certainly were."

            Buffy frowned pensively.  She drummed her fingers on the table.

            "I need to go out," she said.  "I need to ride.  Would you have some clothes I could borrow?"

            "I'll send Cordelia up with some."

            Cordelia helped Buffy dress in the smart red riding outfit and tucked her hair under a little veiled hat.  "When Angel's messenger gets back from Virginia he'll hopefully have some clothes for you," she said.  "Darla's are all too short and mine would be huge on you."

            "It's fine, really," Buffy said.  "You've already done too much."  They went downstairs, and Cordelia disappeared in the direction of the kitchen while Buffy wandered through the house, trying to find the way to the stables.

            She heard voices in Angel's study, and was about to knock and ask which way to go, when someone shot out in front of her and thrust a hand over her mouth, pressing her back against the wall.

            She looked up, surprised, ready to fight, and saw Will's eyes sparkling down at her.

            "Going riding?"

            She licked his palm, and he moved it away.

            "Want to join me?"

            "Oh, yes," Will said, and kissed her.  Buffy's arms wound up around his neck, and his hands slid around her back.  The riding outfit wasn't as tightly corseted as a normal dress, although she still had layers of stays and petticoats under it.  She was hardly aware she'd even lifted her leg against William's waist until she felt his hand sliding up her thigh, over her stocking tops, and she gasped.

            "Will, not here!"

            He nuzzled her neck.  "Why not?"

            "Someone might see..." He licked her collarbone, and she let out a little moan.  "Or hear."

            "Mmm.  I don't care.  I want to be inside you."

            Buffy tried to think of a way to protest, because she really didn't want anyone to come by and see them, but his hand was doing exquisite things under her skirts and his mouth was hot on her neck and she wanted him to be inside her too, and, hardly of her own volition, her hands pulled her skirts up.

            "Knew you'd see it my way," Will grinned, and unfastened his breeches.  Buffy glanced wildly around - Angel was just on the other side of the wall - and then bit her own tongue to keep quiet as Will slid up inside her still rather tender opening.  She'd thought it might be painful, after all she was a bit sore, but it just felt good.  Like he was stroking away all the pain.

            "Oh, you feel so good," he whispered, lifting her up higher, wrapping her legs around his waist, and Buffy closed her eyes, feeling him move inside her, feeling the heat and the hardness of him.  He moved slowly, whispering things in her ear that made her wriggle and squirm and clutch at him, trying to get him in deeper, to make more friction, to move faster, harder.

            "Will," she said desperately, and he lifted one hand from her hip to press his finger to her lips.

            "Shh," he mocked, "someone might hear."

            "Let them," she said, "I need you harder.  Faster."  She squeezed herself around him.  "Will, _please-_"

            "Damn it," he said, "I can't refuse you anything," and pushed in so hard she let out a cry.  He was so hot, his body so hard, and he felt so good, plunging into her.  Buffy's nails dug into his back through his waistcoat and his shirt, wishing she could feel his skin against her fingers.  She was so hot and so desperate for release she thought she might die.

            "Harder," she whimpered, "harder, Will, please, I'm nearly there..."

            He obliged, smashing into her so hard the wall rattled and through the wood and plaster, Angel said, "What's going on?"

            Buffy's eyes met Will's, wide with panic, and she nearly told him to stop, but then he ground his hips against hers and she forgot all about Angel and concentrated on the gathering heat inside her, building to a fire, spreading inside her, making her arms and legs shake.  She bit her lip, then thought better of it and bit Will's instead, and he let out a hoarse shout, and the door from Angel's study opened and he came out and said, "What the hell?"

            "Oh my God!" Buffy cried, and her body convulsed in an orgasm so intense she nearly passed out.

            "Right," Angel said, and went back inside.

            Will was laughing, shaking as he thrust into her.  "God, that was funny," he said, and Buffy barely heard him, clinging to him absently as her mind floated around somewhere on a plane of ecstasy.

            Will looked at her bare throat and flushed face and the tendrils of hair escaping the hat he'd knocked askew, and felt the heat build and shatter in him too.  He thrust a few more times into her, then erupted, hot and happy, crying, "God, Buffy, you're amazing."

            And Buffy screamed.

            Angel's door opened again.  "Could you two keep it down?" he began, and then he saw what had made Buffy scream, and froze for a second.

            "Was it that good?" Will mumbled against Buffy's neck, and was hurt when she shoved him off her, shoving her skirts down and steadying herself against the wall when her legs trembled.  She looked pointedly over his shoulder, and Will glanced that way, and what he saw nearly made him faint.

            "_Drusilla_?"

            "My little Willie," she said, and Angel burst out laughing.

            "Hey, less of the 'little'," Will said, colouring, fastening his breeches and turning around.

            "You know her?" Buffy said.

            "We've met," Will said shortly, looking Drusilla over.

            "Why is she naked?" Angel said.  "Not that I'm complaining, but..."

            Buffy rolled her eyes and pulled Will's coat off his shoulders.

            "It's short for William," he said, and she hid a smile.

            "I know," she said.

            "I'm not-"

            This time she let him see her grin.  "I know," she said, and he smiled at that.  She took the coat over to Drusilla, who froze, and looked Buffy over warily.

            "It's all right," Buffy said.  "No one's going to hurt you."

            Drusilla clutched the leather around her and inhaled.  "William," she said.

            "Better," Will said.  "What the hell are you doing here?"

            Drusilla didn't answer.

            "We found her," Angel said.  "Wandering around, talking to herself."

            "What happened?  She's all bruised and beaten up."  Will's sharp gaze swung on Angel.  "Did you do that?"

            "I've been helping her!" the darker man protested.  "Honest to God."

            "Drusilla?" Buffy ventured.  "Is that really your name?"

            "That's the one she gave me," Will said.

            "We'll get onto you later," Buffy warned.  "Drusilla, what happened to you?"

            "All the pretty dollies," Drusilla said dreamily.  "They didn't like it.  Chop, chop, chop."

            Silence.

            "Right," Will said.  "Dru, sweetheart, what the hell are you talking about?"

            "Like red wine," Drusilla went on.  "Spill, spill, spill..."

            "And I thought I'd lost my mind," Buffy muttered.

            "Spill, spill, spill..."

            Cordelia came into the room.  "What's she doing down here?"

            "Interesting question," Angel said.  "I thought she was supposed to be staying upstairs."

            "I locked the door," Cordelia frowned.

            "You locked her in?" Will said.

            "Well, there's no telling what she might do if she gets out," Cordelia said.  "She started throwing candlesticks around in her room.  We had to take all the sharp things out.  And the mirror."

            "The mirror?" Buffy said.

            "She screamed whenever she saw herself."

            "Don't know why," Angel said.  "She's not bad-looking."

            Cordelia rolled her eyes.  "I think that's some kind of trauma," she said.  "Come on, Dru, let's get you upstairs."

            Drusilla shook her head.  "Not without my William."

            "Your William?" Buffy arched an eyebrow.  "Excuse me, but-"

            "Not right now, love," Will's hand was heavy on her shoulder.

            "You have some explaining to do," Buffy said, shrugging him away.

            "Fine, but not right now."  He went over to Drusilla and she reached up a hand to stroke his face.  Buffy started forwards, but Angel held her back.

            "We'll talk later," he said, and gave a look to Cordelia, who nodded and went away.

            They followed Drusilla and William up the stairs, Buffy flinching every time she touched him, which was often.  She found herself wondering when it was she'd come to regard Will as hers.  Probably some time around her tenth or eleventh orgasm.

            "Does she have any clothes?" Will asked when they got to Drusilla's room, where the lock had indeed been forced, and Buffy picked up a discarded nightgown.  There was blood on it, and she looked up in alarm.

            Drusilla shrieked.

            "Red, red, like wine, spilling and pouring, trickling like a fountain, pretty all over the walls, the floor, running, running down the stairs..."

            Will tried to calm her and she buried her face in his chest.  He looked surprised, but put his arms around her and received a scowl from Buffy for it.

            "Where's she bleeding from?"

            The door opened and Cordelia came back in with a cup of something hot.  She looked at the nightgown, then back at Drusilla, and sighed.

            "She's not hurt," she said.  "It's - well, you know," she looked at Buffy, who understood immediately.

            Will and Angel looked blank.

            Buffy rolled her eyes.  "It's a female thing," she said, and watched them both colour.

            "Right," Will said, and released Drusilla.

            "It's not catching," Buffy laughed.  "You two go outside and _don't move_ and we'll sort this out.  All right?"

            They agreed all too hastily and fled the room.  Buffy and Cordelia met eyes and grinned.

            "Nice to know there's still some way to intimidate a man," Cordelia said, and Buffy replied, "Oh, there's more than one."

            They sorted Drusilla out and gave her the cup to drink from.  Cordelia explained that it contained a sleeping draught, and as they left she called a servant to stand outside the door and guard it until she could get someone to fix the lock.

            "Right," Buffy looked at Angel and William, "explanation time."

            It was midafternoon, when Giles had dismissed his class for the day and was walking back to his little house, that he saw the carriage rumble through the main street.  It stopped by the tavern, and the driver went inside, coming back out after a minute or so and taking off again.  The carriage rolled away and disappeared around the corner.

            Giles thought little of it, until he came to his own house and saw the carriage outside.

            Frowning, he went in through the kitchen, where Tara was hastily preparing food with Willow's help.

            "Do we have company?"

            The maid bobbed a quick curtsey.  "Sir.  A young lady.  Wants to see you.  Says it's important.  About William."

            By now surprised and very curious, Giles took off his outdoor coat and hat and went through into the parlour, where Anya and Xander were sitting rather too close for a couple who weren't courting, opposite a young lady who had her back to him, sitting in the best chair.

            He cleared his throat.  "I do apologise for keeping you waiting, miss-"

            She rose gracefully to her feet and turned to face him.  She was quite young, perhaps only fifteen or so, with dark hair and big blue eyes in a heart-shaped face.  Her dress was velvet and her hat was very fashionable.  "Mr. - Giles, is it?"

            He nodded.

            "You are the schoolteacher."

            He nodded again.

            "Your niece tells me you may know something of William the Bloody?"

            "Well, yes, yes, I do, but not a huge amount," Giles said, gesturing for her to sit down again, which she did, after shaking his hand and introducing herself.

            "Miss Chaleur," she said.  "Do you know where Mr. Darling is?"

            "Who?" Xander said.

            "William.  That's his name," Giles explained.

            "William the Bloody's surname is _Darling_?" Xander said, and Anya giggled.

            Giles and his guest ignored them.  "Mr. Darling," it did sound odd, now he thought of it, "was here yesterday," he said, "but I'm afraid he left last night."

            "Do you know where?"

            "No, although I would very much like to."

            "Did he rob you?" Miss Chaleur said dejectedly.

            "No, but he tried," Xander said proudly.

            "Did he?  I didn't know that," Anya said, and Xander puffed up proudly.

            "Oh, sure.  He tried to rob us, but we vanquished him."

            "Actually, Perdita vanquished him," Willow said, coming in with a tray of cakes.  She was followed by Tara, who had tea and cups.

            "She's not Perdita," Xander corrected, "she's Elizabeth."

            Miss Chaleur looked at Giles for help.  "I'm confused."

            "My goddaughter, Elizabeth Summers," Giles explained.  "She went missing and we have reason to believe she may be the Perdita who rescued Mr. Harris and Mr. Rosenberg from William the - from Mr. Darling."

            "I'd like to meet this Perdita," Miss Chaleur said with a bit of a smile.  "Why is she using another name?"

            "We don't know," Xander said.  "We think she was hiding - afraid of something.  She, uh, rescued me and Willow," Anya looked disappointed at that, "but she had no idea who she was.  But Mr. Giles thinks she might be his friend's daughter."

            "I see," the guest nodded.  "But she wasn't here with him?"

            "No, she left the night before," Xander said.  "Before we got here.  With Mr. _Darling_," he sniggered as he said the name.

            He was ignored.

            "I have a proposal," Miss Chaleur said.  "I believe I know where Mr. Darling may be.  He told me I was to meet him here but since he is quite obviously not here, I am pretty sure I know where he will be.  I will take you there and vouch for you, and you can ask him about your Miss Elizabeth.  In return you will protect me on the highways.  There are evil men out there.  Do we have an agreement?"

            Giles looked doubtful for a second.

            "I'll come with you," Xander said.  "I survived William once, I can do it again."

            "You just want to see Perdita again," Willow said.

            "I'm coming too," Anya volunteered quickly, and Xander tried, unsuccessfully, to hide a smile.

            Giles looked at them, saw the resolve on his niece's face, and sighed.  "We have a deal."

            "We met on the boat over," Will said, rolling a cigarette and lighting it.  "Not much in the way of conversation.  She was leaving England for a new life in the new world."

            "With her family?" Buffy asked, and he nodded.

            "Mother, father, older brother and younger sister."

            "Sister?"  Buffy frowned.  "There was no sister..."

            "No, well, there wouldn't be, love.  She died on the ship.  Not long before we reached port.  Mumps.  Spread through the ship like wildfire," his eyes were distant.

            "You didn't see any of the bodies at the farm," Buffy said.  "So you wouldn't have recognised them.  But do you remember what they looked like?"

            He shrugged.  "Her mum looked like her.  I remember that.  The cheekbones, and the eyes.  Really odd pale eyes.  Her brother had them, too."

            Buffy closed her own eyes and brought to mind the three bodies they'd found at the farmhouse.

            "I think that was them," she said.  "I'm almost sure of it.  I knew Drusilla reminded me of someone when I saw her.  That's who."

            "So someone attacked the family," Angel said, "killed Ma and Pa and big brother, but not her."

            "From the look of her I'd say she'd been raped," Darla said, and Buffy shuddered.  Will put his arm around her.  "And brutalised.  She's still in a hell of a state."

            Buffy nodded.  "You saw her reaction to the blood.  And what was she saying about it flowing down the stairs?"

            "She rambled even when she was sane," Will said, blowing out a smoke ring.  "Always on about the bloody stars."

            "How well did you know her?" Angel asked slyly, and Will glared at him.

            "As well as you know her," he gestured at Darla.

            "You were sleeping with her?"

            "Don't recall much sleeping," Will said with a smirk, which vanished when he felt Buffy stiffen under his arm.  "Buffy, love, it was ten years ago.  More than that.  Twelve, thirteen..."

            "She must have been young," Darla said.

            "Not much more than a kid."

            "And still unmarried at this age."

            "Too bloody weird to get married," William inhaled on his roll-up.

            "You didn't want her?" Buffy said tonelessly.

            "Used goods, love.  She was just for then."

            "Like me?  Am I just for now?"

            Angel and Darla exchanged looks.

            "Why don't we go and check on Drusilla?" she said, and dragged him to his feet.  He looked disappointed, but went.

            Buffy got up too, and Will stood, thinking she was going to leave, but she just paced around the room, still wearing that red riding costume, looking lush.

            "Am I just for now?" she asked, and he sighed.

            "Love, do you know who I am?"

            "I'm starting to think I don't."

            "I'm a highwayman.  I don't do permanency."

            "You just do whoever passes by," Buffy said.  "Right."

            "No," he reached for her, and she shook him off.  "No, listen.  What I mean is, it would never really work between us."

            "Why?  Because a highwayman and a highwaywoman are so very different?"

            "No, because this time next week, you or I could get shot in the head by the militia.  And if I spend any more time with you, then I'm not going to be able to live with you getting shot in the head."

            She was silent for a few seconds, and William stepped closer.

            "Buffy.  Pet.  You're one of the most amazing women I've ever met.  You're - the things you do, the way you move..."

            "So it's just about what we do in bed?"

            "The way you breathe," William finished.  "Hell, I wanted you when you were throwing rocks at me.  But we can't get involved, Buffy.  We just can't.  Maybe you can go on to a normal life, but not me.  I'm set.  I like being a highwayman, I'm good at it.  I can't give you the life you deserve."

            And besides, he thought, what would I ever get from you?  You don't even seem to like me most of the time.

            "You're right," she said, and he looked up in surprise.  "You're right, it would never work.  And its not like we have a lot to throw away.  Not like this was a grand love affair or anything..."

            It could be, Will thought, and sighed.  In a perfect world, it could be.  But then he'd get shot in the head and she'd be alone again.  Or worse, she'd get shot, and he wasn't sure he could go on without her.

            It was ridiculous.  A few days and he was 'what-if'ing.  No.  It had to stop now, before he lost concentration.

            Someone tapped on the door, and they both looked up.  It was Doyle.

            "We have visitors," he said.  "Well, you do."

            "Who?" Buffy asked.  "Me or him?"

            "Both of you," Doyle said, and Buffy and Will looked at each other in confusion.

            Then, "Willow and Xander," Will realised.

            "How the hell did they find us?" Buffy said.  "Matter of fact, how did you find me?"

            "Angel," Will said.  "I'll explain later."

            He headed out of the room, and Buffy followed, frowning.

            They were in the drawing room, more of them than she'd expected.  The only one she recognised was Xander, who leapt up in delight when he saw her.

            "Perdita!"

            "Buffy," she corrected.

            "You're not hiding any more?"

            "I, er-" Buffy looked around, and saw an older man standing there smiling broadly at her.

            "Elizabeth," he said.  "I'm so happy to see you safe and well."

            "Er, yes," she said.  "Er..."

            "Buffy," Will's hand rested on the small of her back, "don't tell me you've forgotten your godfather, good old Rupert?"

            "Rupert," Buffy repeated, looking him over closely.  Nope, didn't ring any bells.

            "It has been a long time since I saw you," Giles said, laughing.  "I'm not surprised you don't remember.  You must have been quite small."

            "But you recognised me."

            "You look exactly like your mother did at that age."

            "My mother?"

            "Ah, yes," Giles took off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief.  "I'm afraid I have some bad news.  The ship you were on, The Redoubtable, you survived the sinking?"

            Buffy nodded.  "Just."

            "But your mother... I'm afraid we found her on the beach.  It appears she drowned."

            There was silence for a few seconds.

            "Buffy?" Will said gently.

            "I thought so," she said quietly.  "I thought she must be dead.  "Angel, you can call off your messenger."

            He nodded and left the room.

            "So he's the master of Sunnydale House?" Xander said.  "Friend of yours?"

            "Old friend," Buffy said, and looked over the two women who'd come with Xander and Giles.  One was sitting on the chaise, looking possessively at Xander.  Buffy smiled at that.  She was delicate and very pretty, and there was a stubborn set to her face that Buffy had a feeling Xander might enjoy.

            The other was looking at William, or rather trying to, because Giles was in her way.  She was small, quite young, and had dark hair tucked up under her large picture hat.  When they'd come in the girl's face had been hidden by the hat, but now it was on show as she looked up.  At William.  Straight at William.  Despite what they'd been saying just a few minutes ago, Buffy felt a flash of jealousy.  Will was still hers, at least for now.

            Should she ask who they were?  Or was she supposed to know?

            But Will did it for her.  Still unaware of the dark-haired girl, he looked at the girl staring at Xander, and grinned.  "This is your godfather's niece, love," he said.  "Anya.  Does that make you cousins?"

            Buffy opened her mouth to say hello, but she was cut off by the younger girl speaking for the first time.

            "That depends on if they're related by marriage," she said.  "If there's no marriage certificate, there's no relationship.  Right, Spike?"

            Will froze.  Buffy stared at him, and then he shoved Giles aside and stared at the girl.

            "What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

            "You said you'd meet me at Mr. Giles's.  But you weren't there.  I thought you might still be here.  And you are.  With all these..." she looked around, "interesting people."

            Buffy narrowed her eyes.  She wasn't sure she liked the 'interesting'.

            "Friend of yours?" she asked Will.

            "No," he said.

            Silence.  The girl stared stubbornly at him.

            "Not a friend, not a relation," she said eventually.  "Would you like to tell them who I am?"

            Buffy had a dreadful feeling he was going to tell her the girl was his mistress.

            Will swallowed.  He took a deep breath, and he let it out.  "This is Dawn Chaleur," he said, and his fingers curled into a fist.  "My daughter."

_Betcha didn't see that one coming, huh?  Or maybe you did.  Let me know!  Reviews make me happy.  And when I'm happy, I write happy things.  So unless you want me to viciously murder Will and Buffy's budding little romance (like they haven't done it already), say nice things!  Make me smile! :-)_


	9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

            Buffy downed her whisky and held the glass out for more.  Will refilled it wordlessly.  So she'd get drunk, fall into bed with him and wake up sure she'd forgiven him.

            Right.

            He looked at her face, and drank a lot of whisky straight from the bottle.

            Maybe.

            He waited nervously.  It wasn't going to be pretty.  They'd come into Angel's office to talk, at Buffy's insistence.  He hadn't dared say no.

            "Is anyone going to say anything?" Dawn asked.  "Or are we all going to sit here glaring at each other?"

            "No one's glaring at you," Buffy said.

            "He is."

            Right on cue, Will swung his hard blue gaze on her.  She stared back, unflinchingly.  She didn't seem to be very afraid of him, Buffy thought.  Not your average meek, polite English daughter.  But then she didn't even sound very English.  She had the same flat Colonial vowels as Buffy and Xander and Willow.  But Will had come over to America ten or twelve years ago, which must have been after Dawn was born.  She was several years too old to have been born after he'd arrived.

            Buffy was confused.

            "How old are you?"

            Dawn lifted her chin.  "Sixteen.  I'll be seventeen soon."

            "Six months," Will glowered.

            "Oh, you remembered," Dawn sounded bitter.

            "Of course I sodding remembered, you stupid little chit, I can't forget the day my marriage prospects were ruined forever."

            "You had marriage prospects?" Buffy asked with heavy sarcasm.

            "Damn right I did.  I was bloody _eligible_."

            Dawn snorted.  "Didn't seem to do you too much harm.  You completely hid me away.  If it hadn't been for my grandmother-"

            "Don't you bring my mother into this," Will rounded on her.

            "Oh, right, because she's your mother, and not my grandmother," Dawn said.  "I was forgetting.  I'm so sorry, Miss Buffy, I shouldn't have introduced myself as his daughter when I'm plainly not."

            Buffy privately thought that she'd never seen two people more alike.  "So then... what are you?"

            Dawn looked stubborn, and not a little bit proud.  "Illegitimate."

            "...Oh."

            Will sighed and drank a bit more whisky.  "It's not what it looks like," he began.

            "Oh?  So you don't have a sixteen year old illegitimate daughter hidden away somewhere?"

            Will looked wretched.

            "It's quite simple," Dawn said.  "My mother was a French girl he met when he was a green young ensign, fresh out of the nursery, serving drinks to his colonel in Paris.  Spike came home, and found out she'd got there ahead of him, some clerk had taken pity and given her my grandmother's address in London, and when he got there she was already on the payroll.  Working in the kitchen until I was born."

            "You got some French maid pregnant, then _left_ her?" Buffy said.

            "No!" Will said.  "Well, yes.  But I didn't know.  I just left with my regiment and she stayed in Paris and the next I knew was when I came home for Christmas and Marie was out here with Dawn."

            "So you sent her to work in the kitchens?"  Buffy's voice was getting higher and higher with incredulity.

            "No, his mother did," Dawn said matter-of-factly.  "She could have just turned her out.  It was quite good of her to keep my mama on.  She didn't have any proof that Spike was anything to do with it."

            "Why do you call him Spike?" Buffy sidetracked.

            "To annoy me," Will said.  "Look.  When I found out what had happened I offered to set her up back in France."

            "Send us both away because you didn't want us hanging around to shame you," Dawn nodded.

            "No," he rubbed his face, "I didn't mean it like that.  Stop twisting what I say."

            "So you didn't want me out of the way?"

            "Kept you on, didn't I?"

            Dawn rolled her eyes.  "You had me living in the cellar with the coalboy."

            Buffy stared at him.

            "His mother looked after them," Will defended, "they were the same age and he - she - she was fine, all right?"

            Dawn folded her arms and gave him a hard look.

            "Tell her about Cecily."

            Will looked sulky.  He reached for the whisky but Buffy put her hand over it and asked in steely tones, "Who is Cecily?"

            Will drummed his fingers nervously on the desk.  He glanced at Dawn, who sighed impatiently and said, "His wife."

            Buffy gaped.  "You have a _wife_?"

            "Had," he corrected.  "She's dead now."

            "Oh.  I'm sorry."

            "Don't be," Will muttered.  "I wasn't."

            Buffy's swift contrition vanished as soon as it had arrived.

            "Are you going to tell me?  Or do I have to get Dawn to spell it out?"

            Silence.  Eventually Dawn rolled her eyes and explained, "Cecily was the girl his parents wanted him to marry, because she came from a good family and had lots of money."

            "Of course."

            Spike missed the daggers look Buffy shot him, so busy was he staring fixedly at his hands.

            "Only as soon as they found out about me, they suddenly stopped being so interested.  And so did everyone else."

            "Lots of men have illegits," Will said sulkily.  "They just don't have them around buggering up their home lives."

            "So eventually he had to resort to dastardly tactics," Dawn went on.  "He compromised her."

            Buffy raised her eyebrows.

            "I was in love with her," Will said defensively.  "And she could have said no."

            "Evidently 'no' wasn't a word in her vocabulary," Dawn muttered.

            "Meaning?"

            "Even I knew about her," Dawn said scathingly.  "As soon as you went back to your regiment she was off with every young man around town.  Looking for 'comfort' because her husband was away and she'd no children to keep her company."

            "Yeah, well, that changed, didn't it?" Will muttered.

            "You have more children?" Buffy asked nervously.

            "No," he said shortly.  "Cecily did."

            He refused to say any more on the subject, so it was left to Dawn to explain.  Again.

            "He was off in France and Spain a lot," she said.  "War, war, war.  England's really good at war.  No one's happy unless they're advancing on someone.  Anyway, I think I must have been about five - just old enough to start learning how to clean the chimney - when the rumour spread around the house that Cecily was expecting."

            "How nice," Buffy said coldly.

            "Was for her," Will said viciously.

            Buffy blinked at his violent tone.

            "And right about the same time," Dawn went on, "Grandm - his mother," she changed it pointedly, "got quite sick.  So she wrote him to come home.  Which he did.  And then," she flicked her eyes at Will, who was leaning against the desk, looking sullen, staring at the opposite wall.  "Then he told us the news."

            "What news?" Buffy asked in dread.

            "The same fever that killed Marie a few months after Dawn was born also... affected me," Will said stiffly.

            "What kind of fever?" Buffy asked, suddenly cold with sweat, certain it was some kind of sexual disease she'd now have picked up from him.

            "Mumps," Dawn said.  "I think."

            "The same thing that killed Drusilla's sister," Buffy said softly, looking at Will, who gave a bare little nod, not looking at her.

            "Who?" Dawn asked.

            "It doesn't matter for now.  I'm not sure I understand what this has to do with anything," Buffy said.  "Why was it important that you'd had mumps?"

            Will reached for the whisky bottle, and this time Buffy let him have it.  He drank a lot, shuddered as it burned through him, then took a breath.  "Before Marie there hadn't been anyone else," he said slowly.  "And there weren't any since, not until Cecily.  And we were married for nearly five years.  I was home a lot, she came out to see me when she could tear herself away from her young men.  I wasn't celibate, Buffy.  But Cecily never got pregnant.  Not from me.  We thought there was something wrong with her.  She was barren.  I thought..."

            He trailed off, staring off at an unseen distance.  After a while Dawn spoke again, more softly.

            "They thought the problem was with Cecily.  As it was so abundantly clear to everyone," she gestured to herself, "that he was perfectly manly."

            Will suddenly grabbed Buffy's empty glass and hurled it at the wall where it shattered noisily.  Dawn shrieked and covered her face with her arms, but Buffy sat still.

            "The mumps sterilised you," she said, and he gave a little affirmative shrug, still not looking at either of them.  "You knew that, so you knew Cecily's child couldn't be yours... What did you do?" she asked, fascinated.

            "Got on a boat and came over here."

            "Just like that?"

            "Pretty much."

            "And you?" Buffy glanced at Dawn.

            "Wasn't like I was ever going to have another one," Will muttered, and Buffy stared at him.  Somewhere in there was something that was quite sweet.

            Somewhere.

            "What about Cecily?"

            "Left her to rot in hell."

            "After making sure everyone knew," Dawn added, looking a bit gleeful.  "No one would talk to her.  People spat at her.  It was fantastic."

            "Sounds it," Buffy said faintly.

            "Of course, then she died in childbirth," Dawn added, frowning a little.  "But I think she deserved it."

            Buffy opened her mouth to comment, then closed it again when she realised she couldn't think of a thing to say.  It was rather an awful, emasculating thing to happen to him, and it was dreadful that his wife had cheated like that, but on the other hand he'd been hiding an illegitimate child in a chimney somewhere.  So to speak.

            She was just about to ask where Dawn lived, and if Will lived there too, and how the girl had tracked him down, when Will stood up abruptly, bottle in hand, and announced, "I'm going to bed."

            Surprised, Buffy managed to nod, and it was only as he brushed past her that she started to tell him to stay.  But then she saw him blink furiously, and had an awful feeling he was going to cry.

            "Will, don't-"

            "Sod off," he snapped.  "Just - go away.  I don't need to - just sod off.  You too," he glared at Dawn, who looked like she was about to say something.  She backed away, hands raised, and the two women watched him stalk out of the room, slamming the door as he went.

            "Well, that went well," Dawn said.

            "Yes," Buffy said numbly.

            "Are you all right?  You look sort of pale."

            "I - I think I need to go after him."

            She rose to her feet, but Dawn caught her arm, shaking her head.

            "He's too angry now.  Let him calm down.  Come with me and we'll talk with the others.  The gentleman who owns this house, and your godfather and his friends.  He seems nice."

            "Yes," Buffy repeated, just as vaguely as before.  She let Dawn lead her from the room, followed the smell of food to the dining room where dinner was being served, and then she sat and made polite small talk with everyone, glossing over what she couldn't remember with feigned distress about the shipwreck and her mother, and looking to Angel for help when Giles asked her something she was supposed to know.

            She learned about her father's plantation in Virginia and how her mother had gone on running it after his death.  She learned about how Henry Summers and Rupert Giles had been very good friends in England, had come over together and started life in Virginia, before Giles had moved up to Massachusetts to look after his sick sister, who had died leaving him Anya to care for.  She ascertained that Giles had no idea about anything untoward in her history: if Angel was telling the truth and she really had robbed coaches in Virginia, then Giles was completely and quite happily ignorant of it.

            She also learned that Anya and Xander were extremely interested in each other, although no one had to tell her that.  There were practically flames leaping up across the table where they smouldered at each other.  As Cordelia passed her with a carafe of wine, Buffy caught her sleeve and murmured, "Could you see they have rooms nearby each other?"

            "Already have," Cordelia gave her a smile and a little wink before moving on, and Buffy sat back, satisfied that at least someone was going to have a good night.

            Eventually Giles excused himself to retire to bed, apologising that he was old and the journey had been long.  He thanked Angel elegantly and left the room, followed by his niece and Xander, yawning fakely.  Buffy glanced at Dawn, who rolled her eyes and said, "All right, I'll go to bed too.  I'm not that much of a child, you know."

            "I'm sure you're not," Angel said, but the lascivious look he gave her sent Dawn scurrying.  Darla smacked him.

            "Stop lusting after other women," she said, "or I'll have to hurt you."

            "Oh, please do," Angel leered.

            "I think I'll go to bed too," Buffy rose to her feet before it all started getting inappropriate.  "I'll see you in the morning, before we leave...?"

            They nodded, hardly noticing her, and Buffy left the room wearing a faint smile.  Objectively, she could see that Angel was a very attractive man, but she wasn't sure what she'd ever really seen in him.  Part of her suspected he may have been pulling her leg.  And then part of her suspected he'd pulled a lot more than that.

            Her room was empty, the bed looking big and cold without Will lying in it.  She supposed she should go and see him.  Talk to him.  Console him.

            She brushed her hair, bit her lips for colour, then went in search of her missing lover.

            First she got hold of Doyle and asked if Will had taken another room.  Doyle said that no, he hadn't, and in fact he'd left the office and gone straight to the stables.  Buffy was terrified he might have run away, but Doyle assured her he'd left his greatcoat behind, and he'd definitely be coming back for it.

            Reassured, Buffy went got herself a cloak and stepped out into the dark night.  The sky was clear and full of stars and the air was cold and biting.  She shivered into her cloak, pulled the hood up over her loose hair, and crunched over the gravel to the stableblock.  It was full of horses, but empty of Will.  Buffy searched everywhere, annoying the horses, and eventually stomped out, hot and frustrated, and was about to give up and go back up to her big cold bed when she caught the scent of smoke.  Tobacco smoke.  And if she looked carefully, she could just see a glow coming from the direction of the terrace.

            She set off as stealthily as she could, which was pretty silent, and crept up behind him as he sat on the low wall surrounding the terrace, smoking moodily, his back to the house.  She had one hand over his mouth and the other over his eyes before he even knew she was there, and she enjoyed the sensation of him struggling against her before she whispered in his ear, "Shh or you'll wake the whole household."

            He stilled.  "Buffy?"

            She moved her hands to rest on his shoulders.  "Who else?"

            "I dunno.  Could be bloody anyone."  Spike sucked in some smoke and blew it back out again.  "Everyone around here's got some reason for sneaking around.  Half of 'em'd like to kill me."

            "You really think so?"  Buffy was amazed at his vanity.

            "Well, your Angel's still got a candle burning for you.  Good old Rupert probably thinks I'm after your virtue-"

            Buffy snorted.

            "And Dawn's had a gun on me more than once."

            Buffy's eyes widened.  "Dawn?"

            "Scarier than she looks, love.  How'd you think she got me to bring her over here?"

            "Wasn't she five?"

            He was silent for a bit, and Buffy had to hide a giggle, slipping her arms around his neck and holding them loosely there.

            "Spike," she said, and felt him stiffen.  "Why do people call you that?"

            "Army nickname."

            "Because...?"

            "Various reasons."

            "Such as?"

            He hesitated, and Buffy sighed.  "I'm not going to be shocked."

            "I impaled three people with the King's Colours."

            "The-?"

            "The Union Flag.  You know?  Red and white crosses on blue.  It's everywhere.  Must be held high at all costs.  Some poor little bugger's got to stand around like target practice, carrying this bloody great flag.  Red, white, and blue are hardly what you might call subtle on a battlefield."

            "Why couldn't you just shoot those people?"

            "Takes too long.  Got to keep reloading."

            "But, surely..." Buffy trailed off, and Will leaned back against her.

            "They were after the flag," he said simply.

            "So you stabbed them with it?"

            "Yep."  He looked back at her as she stood with her arms around his neck.  "Shocked?"

            Buffy considered it.  "Seeing as how I met you holding a gun on two defenceless people, no, I don't think so."

            Silence.  A chill wind blew across the terrace, and Buffy instinctively moved a bit closer.

            "What do you do with it?" she asked.

            "With what?  The flag?"

            "The money.  The money you steal from travellers."

            He shrugged in her embrace.  "Dawn spends most of it."

            "You live with her?"

            "Officially.  She has the house to herself.  Buys horses and dresses and things like that.  Pretty things.  Goes to parties."

            "I thought you were ashamed of her."

            He sighed.  "I was ashamed of her when she was this big-eyed kid my mother said I had to provide for.  People tell you something's a mistake and it's not so hard to believe.  Could have had a much better time without her.  Marie, too.  She didn't deserve to die, not like that, alone in a foreign country, brand new baby and no family to care for it."

            "Your mother cared for it."

            "My mother said someone must look after it.  She didn't actually do it herself.  She and Dawn hardly saw each other.  Kid was like a charity case.  No one wanted her.  Not even the woman feeding her.  It was just my mother trying to make me feel guilty."

            "Did it work?"

            "Hell, yes."

            "Are you still guilty?"

            Will sighed again.  "Of more things than I can remember.  But I don't feel ashamed of her any more.  Look at her.  She's grown up so well.  Despite me."

            "Why did you really bring her over?"

            He was silent for so long Buffy thought he wasn't going to answer.  Then he said, "I walked out of the house when I heard Cecily's news.  Went to my club and got drunk.  Three days later I rolled up at home, proceeded to tell the entire household the whole sordid story, and walked out again.  I was still half-cut.  Really all I wanted to do was make sure Cecily got what she deserved.  And then the damndest thing happened.  This tiny little urchin came out of the drawing room with a duster in her hand, and Cecily yelled something about me disowning all my children, and I just thought, 'I'll never have another child.  I can't lose this one.'  And I grabbed her grubby little hand and took her with me."

            "No regrets?"

            "Every bloody second.  She was a whiny little brat.  Cost me a fortune too: had to kit her out properly so people wouldn't question it when I said I was leaving for a new life after my wife had died.  My cover story," he explained.  "I was leaving everything.  Mother, Cecily, the army, everything."

            "You deserted the British Army?" Buffy said.

            "I did.  Are you impressed?"

            "Oh, very.  What rank were you?"

            "When I left?  Lieutenant."

            He said it the English way, Leftenant, not the American literal pronunciation, and it took Buffy a while to realise what he meant.  Something in her was tugging familiarly, but she couldn't figure out what it was.

            "And then what?  You met Drusilla on the way over..."

            "I think the word there is 'rebound'."

            "Probably what drove her crazy," Buffy muttered.  "And now?  Where do you live?"

            Will hadn't missed her crack about driving Dru crazy, and he smiled at the dark garden.  "Up in the north of the colony.  Past Boston.  Quite a way.  I wonder what the hell Dawn came here for?"

            "You didn't think to ask her?"

            "When was I supposed to do that?"

            "Before you stormed out like a child, maybe?"

            Will made a face Buffy couldn't see in the darkness, but didn't really need to.  She was still standing behind him, his head resting on her chest, his soft hair tickling the tops of her breasts where her cloak had fallen away.

            "Listen," she said, and she really didn't want to have to say the words.  "Tomorrow, I-"

            But at the same time, Will started speaking, and Buffy shut up to hear him, especially after he began with, "Can I ask you something?"

            "I probably won't know the answer, but sure.  Go right ahead."

            "Will you talk to Dawn for me?  Tomorrow?  I just have the feeling she won't tell me why she's here.  I think she kind of liked you.  She might talk to you."

            Buffy was silent for a while, and Will bit his lip.  Dammit.  Shouldn't have asked her.  He just wanted her to bond with Dawn.  Maybe if they became friends, Buffy would still occasionally come into his life.

            Bad idea, Will.  On all counts.

            "Are you afraid of talking to her?" Buffy asked, and there was laughter in her voice.

            "No, of course not," Will said hotly, then realised she was teasing him.  He turned his head, saw her smiling down at him, and reached up to the back of her head to pull her down to him.  Her lips were cold but her mouth was warm and her body curved around his until she was sitting beside him, her back to the garden while his faced the terrace, kissing and touching with more sweetness than ever before.  Buffy knew she was leaving in the morning, and Will knew he couldn't keep her in his life.  Best not to allow either of them to hope for more, he reasoned.

            Still, a good send off would still be in order.  Something to remember each other by.

            "It's cold out here," Buffy murmured as she kissed his neck.

            "I don't feel it.  You're keeping me warm."  His fingers started unfastening her riding habit.  His hands, warmed by much activity under her cloak, were gentle and reassuring as he stroked the bit of her breast that was above her corset, and then started to free the rest of it.  Buffy gave up on trying to get him to come indoors and decided she'd just have to keep busy if she wanted to be warm.

            She unbuttoned his waistcoat and pulled his shirt out from his breeches and stroked the warm skin of his stomach.  Odd how his skin should be so soft but the muscle under it so hard.  Will had freed one of her breasts now and was stroking it as he kissed her mouth, rolling the cold hard nipple between his fingers, making her moan into his mouth and arch a bit closer.

            "Buffy," he whispered, lifting his mouth from hers for a second.  "I want you.  Now.  Out here."

            "Mmm," she agreed, hand slipping down to his crotch and finding a pleasantly large bulge there.  "I can tell."

            He suddenly reeled away from her to swing around and stand up on the terrace, reaching for her and pulling her down to the ground beside him.  Her cloak - one she'd borrowed from a knowing Cordelia - was thick, and so was the velvet of her outfit, and she didn't feel the cold stone beneath her as Will laid her down and started kissing and stroking her again.  She gasped a bit as the cold air hit her thigh when he bared it, but she was soon warmed by his insistently hot touch.

            His mouth descended on her breast, and Buffy held him there as he spread heat through her entire body.  His fingers crept up between her legs, and she returned the favour by slipping her hand inside his breeches and finding him hot and hard and ready for her.  They stroked each other for a while, Buffy biting her lip to try and keep herself quiet as he nibbled at her breast and slipped his fingers up inside her.

            "Spike," she gasped, and neither of them really noticed her use of his nickname until much later, "I want you.  Now.  Out here."

            He looked up and grinned at her echo of his own words, then he kissed her thoroughly as he parted her thighs and settled himself in the best place in the world.  Well, nearly the best.  He slid into her, and felt like he was coming home.

            Outside the air was freezing, and the bits of Buffy's skin that weren't covered by her clothes or by her lover, were covered in goose-pimples.  But she didn't notice, because inside she was burning up.  She was sure she'd just burst into flames, the heat inside her was so intolerable.  She bucked her hips up and tightened around him and was rewarded with a groan of pleasure.  He fit her so well, felt so right and so good between her legs, like they were made to lie together like that.  And then when he moved inside her, Buffy's eyes rolled back in her head and she clutched at him, trying not to moan so loudly she'd wake everyone up.

            "Please don't stop," she gasped.

            "Wasn't planning to."

            "Don't ever - ah! - stop..."

            Spike looked down at her heaving breasts and flushed face, and knew he never wanted to stop.

            But eventually he had to, because she started moving faster and slicker against him, pulling him deeper inside her, writhing closer, gasping incoherently wanton things, and he only just had time to acknowledge that she was breaking and falling over the edge before he fell with her, and they collapsed together in a tangled heap on the cold terrace, panting and clutching and heavy and sated.

            "We should," Buffy dragged in a cold breath, "go inside."

            "Mmm."  Spike's face was buried in her neck, breathing in the scent of her, hot and aroused and helplessly desirable, and he wasn't really listening to what she was saying.  Then she started pushing him off her, and he looked at her, hurt.

            "We'll freeze," she explained, and without her heat surrounding him, he realised she was right.  It was bloody cold out here.

            He hastily rearranged his clothing as Buffy did the same, and then he took her hand and led her back inside, sniggering suddenly when he realised the back of her cloak was smudged with dust and dirt.  Buffy frowned at him, and he tried to clear his face.

            "Nothing," he said.  "Just... uh..."

            "I know," her cheeks got a bit pinker.  "I can't believe we just did that, either.  Anyone could have seen us."

            "Yep," he pulled her against him and kissed her neck, felt her pulse kick up.  "And wouldn't that have been dreadful?"

            Buffy was saved from answering - because she had a feeling she wouldn't have found it so dreadful after all, and she was shocked at herself - by footsteps along the corridor.  It was Cordelia, a quilted and embroidered gown over her nightdress, carrying a cup of drugged milk to Drusilla's room.  She raised her eyebrows.

            Buffy felt her face get hotter.  She quickly untied the cloak and handed it over, eyes averted, because she knew Cordelia had seen her necking with Spike.

            The brunette eyed the stains on the cloak and glanced up to meet his eyes.  He winked and pressed his finger to his lips, then said out loud, "Night, then," and towed Buffy away to her own room.

            Cordelia looked at the cloak, at the disappearing couple, and resolved to get the garment washed immediately.  Thoroughly.

            Twice.

            _A.N.  Technically speaking the King's Colours referred to is not the Union Jack used today, but a simpler version that didn't include the Irish Flag of St Patrick, as __Ireland__ wasn't part of the __United Kingdom__ until forty years later.  The flag would therefore have been a blue background with the white diagonal cross of St Andrew (__Scotland__) and the red upright cross of St George (__England__).  In the centre would have been the title and number of William Darling's battalion, surrounded by the King's (George III) crown._

_            The King's Colours were to be upheld at all times during battle and it was considered to be a great humiliation if the flag was captured.  Hence our hero's patriotic determination to hold on to the damn thing before he got bored and started impaling people with it._

_            Another aside: When he says he lives upstate __Massachusetts__, this could be anywhere up to __Maine__, as the whole area was known as the __Massachusetts__Commonwealth__ at the time._

_Wasn't that a fun history lesson?  Okay, now I'm off.  Crimbo is coming, so updates might be patchy.  Which will make such a difference, eh?_


	10. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

            "...So then he yells, 'Get thee gone, witch!' and throws this massive flaming torch at me," Willow said.  "It caught my skirt and set it on fire."

            Tara's eyes were huge.  "What did you do?"

            "Jumped in the river," Willow said.  "I ducked under and swam away.  Xander said they thought I'd disappeared.  Obviously hadn't heard of underwater swimming."

            "Were you all right?"

            "I was fine.  Messed up my skirt, but then clothes are a lot easier to replace than skin.  It did burn me a little, though," Willow said.

            "Where?"

            "On my calf.  Look," she sat down on a low wall and lifted up her skirt, pulling down her stocking to show Tara the faded scar.

            "Poor thing," Tara stroked the skin, soft but slightly bumpy under the surface where the tissues had been damaged.  Willow shivered.  "Are you cold?"

            "No," Willow said, truthfully, because she was suddenly hot.  "It, uh, it tickles.  Itches."

            "I could get some salve for that, if you want," Tara offered.  "Anya keeps some, I think.  I'm sure she wouldn't mind."

            Willow gave her a warm smile.  "Thanks."  She pulled her stocking back up and fastened the garter.  "I, er..."

            Tara's eyes ducked down, then back up again.  "I suppose Xander usually does that for you."

            "Does what?"

            "Salve and things.  For your burn.  And - you know, other things."

            Willow laughed nervously.  "He does, and he always makes some joke about it."

            "Why?  It's not funny."

            "No, he just... He always says something like, 'It's just like we're married or something.'"

            "Why aren't you?" Tara asked suddenly.

            Taken aback, Willow blinked a bit.  "I, uh... Well, you know, it's _Xander_."

            Tara frowned anxiously.

            "Plus, I can't marry him."

            "Why not?"

            "I'm... Jewish, and he's not."

            "Oh," Tara looked down again.  "What's it like?"

            "What?"

            "Being... Jewish."

            "It's not something I really think about much.  What's it like not being Jewish?"

            Tara looked up, caught Willow's eye, and smiled shyly.  "I... I never really thought about it like that."

            Willow wasn't really sure how it happened.  One minute they were sitting there talking about Judaism, and the next she was thinking how lush Tara's lips looked.  And when she tried to tell herself she was purely admiring them, in an aesthetic sort of way, she knew she was lying.

            "A-are you all right?" Tara asked, looking at her strangely.

            "I'm fine," Willow said quickly.

            "You're all pale."

            "I, uh..."

            Tara touched her forehead, her cheeks.  "You're burning up."  She leaned closer.  "You're-"

            And then Willow kissed her.

            Dawn was already dressed and heading for the stables when she met her father going in the same direction.

            "I thought you had a late night last night."

            He barely looked at her, just strode on by.  "I thought you were supposed to have been asleep."

            "My room overlooks the terrace," Dawn said, arching her eyebrows, and Spike had the grace to blush.  "Buffy still asleep?"

            "She is."

            "I like her," Dawn said thoughtfully.

            "Me too," Spike said, but he didn't sound too happy about it.  He found his horse and saddled it himself, ignoring the stablehands who swarmed about, trying to impress his daughter in her smart blue velvet.  "You really brought a riding costume with you on a flying visit?"

            "I didn't know how long I'd be here," Dawn said, smiling prettily at a boy who was taking a deliberately long time to fasten a buckle on the saddle.  Spike glared at him and did it himself.

            "Why are you here?"

            "I wanted to tell you something."

            "So tell me."  Spike swung up onto his horse, and Dawn did the same before she spoke.

            "I'm getting married."

            "The hell you are."  Spike kicked his horse out into the yard.  Dawn followed, staring.  She'd been gearing up to say this for weeks.  She'd expected something a little more than that.

            "No, I really am."

            "No, you're really not."

            Exasperated, she said, "Why not?"

            "You don't have my permission."

            "I wasn't asking for it."

            "I'll lock you in."

            "I'll escape," Dawn said matter-of-factly as she rode after him out of the yard and down a mud track.  "I'm getting married."

            "You're too young."

            "No, I'm not!  Sixteen is a perfectly acceptable age to be married!"

            "No, it's not," Spike said, and kicked his mare into a gallop.  As if he didn't have enough to cope with, there was this.  Most of the time he hardly remembered he had a daughter, and when he did it was to think of some tiny creature with massive blue eyes who looked up at him with a mixture of awe and fear.

            How long had it been since she looked at him like that?  Come to think of it, had she ever?  He couldn't remember Dawn being afraid of anything.  She was as stubborn as a mule and she never did what she was told.  And as for being tiny, she had done an awful lot of growing up since he'd seen her last.

            An awful lot.

            And she was far too young to be getting married.  Next thing he knew, she'd be having babies and then he'd be a grandfather.  Him, a grandfather!  He was a ruthless bloody highwayman, for God's sake.  He could just about get away with having an illegitimate daughter, because that was a rakish thing to do, but not a grandchild.  Never.

            "Look," Dawn had slewed her horse in front of him, making him stop suddenly - thank God his horse was so well trained - "I could have just run off and got married and you'd never have even known about it.  Never have even met him.  I'm offering you the chance to do that."

            "If I meet him, I'll beat the shit out of him," Spike said, trying to get past, but she stayed in his way.

            "Why?  He's a good man."

            Because he's taking you away, Spike wanted to say.  And if he does that, I'll have nothing.  No Buffy, no Dawn.  Nothing.

            "You're too young."

            "No," Dawn went for patience, "I'm not."

            "You-"

            "I'm as old as you were when you joined the army."

            He glared at her, and she folded her arms.

            "You're still a child," he said.

            "I am not!  I've been running your house for years!  God knows, someone has to."

            Spike tried to think of something to say to that, and failed.

            "Look," Dawn said.  "Come and meet him.  You'll like him.  He's clever and funny, and he has his own house and a respectable income."

            "What does he do?" Spike asked suspiciously.

            "He's a lawyer."

            "I don't trust lawyers."

            "You'd trust him.  He could be very useful.  Think about it, Spike."

            "Why don't you ever call me 'father'?" he asked irritably.

            "Why don't you ever act like one?"

            "I am now."

            "No, now you're acting like a stubborn kid."

            "So that's where you get it from."

            They glared at each other.

            "You can't stop me," Dawn said.

            "Watch me."

            "Why does it bother you so much?"

            "Because," Spike's horse sidestepped restlessly, and he knew how it felt.  "Because you're too young, and I don't want to see you ruin your life the way I ruined mine."

            "By having me?  Well, I'm sorry, but no one asked me if I wanted to be born and ruin your life for you."

            "That's not what I meant-"

            "So what did you mean?"

            Spike ground his teeth.  "I don't want to see you get hurt."

            Dawn cocked her head.  "Why not?"

            Because I love you.  "Because you're all I've got," Spike said, although he said it quietly.

            Dawn looked at him for a long moment, and when he made to pull his horse away, she reached out and grabbed its bridle.

            "What about Buffy?"

            "What about her?"

            "You have her too."

            At that Spike made his horse move away,  "No, I don't," he said, and kicked the mare into a gallop before Dawn could think of anything to say to that.

            She rode back to Angel's house, slid off the horse and hardly noticed the stableboys this time, walked back up to the house in thoughtful silence.  Inside, activity swarmed all over the place, and she found Buffy talking to Angel in the drawing room.

            "Have you seen Spike?" Buffy asked, as soon as she saw Dawn.

            Dawn smiled at Buffy's use of his nickname.  "He's out riding."

            "Will he be back soon?"

            "I don't know."  Judging by the look on his face as he'd galloped away, Dawn wouldn't bet on it.

            Buffy's face fell, and when Giles put his head round the door and said they were nearly ready to go, it fell even further.

            "He probably forgot you're leaving," Angel said.

            "Or he just doesn't care."

            "No, he does," Dawn said, and they both looked surprised at the force in her voice.

            "So why didn't he stay to say goodbye?"

            "He - he's just preoccupied," Dawn said lamely.  "Stay a while, and-"

            "Why?" Buffy said, looking unhappy.  "To say goodbye to a highwayman who lies to me?"

            "When did he lie?" Angel asked.

            "He wasn't big on telling me he had a daughter."

            "He never tells anyone," Dawn said.  "I'm the best kept secret in the Colonies."

            Buffy sighed, looking tired.  She was tired: she'd slept fitfully, knowing she had to leave and trying to think of what to say to Spike in the morning.  To Will.  Funny how his name had changed in her mind.  How he had changed.  Now she trusted him, now she cared about how he felt.  Now she didn't want to leave him.

            But she had to.  No one had a better chance to reform than her, and she was damn well going to take it.  Giles was a kind and respectable man, and it looked like Xander and Willow might be staying around for a while, and she liked Anya, and if she got bored she could always come and visit Angel and Darla.  She had an open invitation.

            But she'd sure as hell miss Spike.

            Xander came to the door to tell her they were ready, and she dredged up a smile from somewhere to give to Angel.  He kissed her - going for her mouth but getting her cheek - and hugged her, and she said, "Thank you.  For everything."

            "Any time, darlin'."

            Buffy turned to Dawn, who gave her a shy smile and said, "He really does like you, you know."

            "He likes his horse, too," Buffy said.  "It was nice to meet you, Miss-"

            "Dawn," Dawn said firmly.

            "Dawn," Buffy smiled warmly.  "I hope you and your father get on better."

            "Do _you_ think I'm too young to be married?"

            "Yes," Xander said.

            "Hell, no," Angel said.

            Buffy glared at them both.  "I think you'll know when you're ready."

            "I'm pretty sure I am now."

            "Then no, you're not too young.  Did Spike say you were?"

            Dawn rolled her eyes and nodded.

            "Between you and me, he's not too bright."

            Dawn grinned.  "I like you," she said, and hugged Buffy, who hugged her back in surprise.

            Buffy said goodbye to Darla, and to Cordelia and Doyle - definitely something going on there, she thought - and then she and Giles and Xander and Anya got on their horses, saddlebags fully packed, and rode off.  Away from Sunnydale House.  Away from Angel and his ill-gotten gains, his jokes and his Irish leers.  Away from Cordelia's knowing sense.  Away from Dawn's bright, oddly old eyes.  Away from Spike, his hard delicious body, his cool, hot eyes, his manic cheekbones, his luscious mouth, his heat and his power and his lust.

            Buffy's body throbbed and her heart lurched and she almost turned back, sure she could hear him crying her name, just the way he did when he made love to her, but she knew she was dreaming, and she had to forget him.

            She rode on, her mind full of him.

            Spike reined his horse in, watching the party far below in the valley, riding away out of his life.  He knew where they were going, of course, he could even get down there and intercept them in no time, it was what he did for God's sake - but he also knew Buffy had left without waiting to say goodbye.  He ached for her, felt her absence like the loss of a limb, but he didn't go after her.  He didn't need her in his life.

            He was pretty sure he didn't need her.

            Nearly pretty sure.

            Oh, hell.

            Dawn was reading a book in the library when her father stalked in, looking mad as all hell, riding crop still in hand, and she eyed it warily.  He'd never struck her before, but they way he was looking now she wasn't entirely sure she trusted him.

            "Come on," he said, and grabbed her to her feet.

            "We're going somewhere?"

            "Got a son-in-law to meet," Spike said, and Dawn beamed at him so widely he nearly cracked a smile.  But then he thought, Buffy, and his heart lurched.  "Come on."

            Dawn gathered her things and put her riding costume back on and said goodbye to Darla, who looked at her as if she was a child, and Angel, who looked at her like she was a piece of meat, and followed her father out to the stableyard.

            "I have my carriage," she said, and Spike said, "I hate those things."

            "Okay, we'll ride," she said, seeing her horse all ready for her.  Something told her that to annoy her father right now would not be a good move.

            Her luggage was packed away in the carriage, ready to follow them with Doyle and his pistol escorting it, and they set off.  Spike's horse was fast, and he rode hard, and Dawn was breathless trying to keep up.  That's a lot of frustration he's pounding out there, she thought, as he suddenly reined in on the edge of a small wood and said, "You want to learn the family trade?"

            She looked at him in confusion.

            "Coach coming this way," Spike said.  "Rich pickings."

            "I'm not sure-"

            "Then get over there and stay out of my way," he said abruptly, and Dawn did as she was told, frightened but curious.  Spike pulled something out of his pocket and tied it around his face - a black scarf covering his face below his eyes.  He pulled his hat down, so his face could hardly be seen at all, got out his pistol, and when the coach rattled round the corner, aimed and shot one of the wheels to bits.

            The coach staggered and lurched to a halt, and the driver looked up in terror to see Spike.

            "Get down," Spike said.  "Now, before I shoot you in the head."

            Dawn had never seen him look so ruthless.  The driver did as he was told, and Spike, swinging off his horse, whacked the man hard over the head with the butt of his pistol.  Dawn winced.  Ouch.

            The door of the coach had opened and a rather fat, pompous-looking man in an elaborate wig got out and started blustering, "Just what's going on here-?"

            He saw Spike reloading his gun, and, far from looking afraid, just blustered a little bit more.

            "Now look here," he said, and Spike waved his gun.

            "Shut up."

            The pompous man got out his own pistol, ornate and ugly, and brandished it bravely.  "I'll not give in to your kind," he said, and Spike aimed and calmly shot him.

            Dawn let out a small scream and covered her mouth with her hand.  She heard more screams, from inside the coach, as the fat man fell to the ground with blood all over him.

            "Shut up," Spike said loudly, "or I'll shoot the bloody lot of you.  Damn sight easier than keeping you all alive.  Get out and keep your mouths shut, or I'll rip you each a new one."

            A trembling and silent group of people got out of the coach, and Dawn watched her father take watches, jewellery and money from each of them.  He stepped over the fallen man carelessly to get to the last passenger, a pretty young woman not too much older than Dawn.  She was shaking so hard Dawn could see the movement from her hiding place in the trees.

            "You," Spike said, gesturing with his gun.  "With me.  The rest of you stay where you are.  I've got someone watching this coach and you'll all be dead in seconds if you try anything."

            He grabbed the young woman by the arm and yanked her into the trees.  She stumbled after him, sobbing, and as they got closer Dawn could hear her crying, "Please don't hurt me.  Take whatever you want.  Please..."

            "Shut _up_," Spike said, and shoved her the last few feet to Dawn.  "Take your cloak off.  Quicker than that, I don't have all day."

            The girl looked at Dawn, who bit her lip and looked uncomfortably at her father.  "Um, should I-"

            "Be quiet," Spike said.  To the girl he added, "Unfasten your dress."

            By now openly sobbing, shaking so hard she could hardly move, the girl took ages to unhook each bit of her bodice.

            "Spike," Dawn said, "this is-"

            He stepped forward and roughly lifted the girl's chin.  "How old are you?"

            "S-sixteen."

            "You a virgin?"

            Tears cascaded down her cheeks.  "Y-yes."

            Spike glanced at Dawn, who looked furious.  "Betrothed?"

            She shook her head and started to mumble a prayer.

            "Good.  Too young.  What do you have in there?" he finished unfastening her bodice as she trembled there before him.

            "Spike," Dawn stepped forward and took his arm, but he shook her off and to her astonishment, withdrew a velvet pouch from the girl's corset.  He shook it, and it jingled with coins and jewellery.

            "Thanks," he said, and tucked the pouch into his pocket.  "Get dressed.  You're giving me ideas."  He strode off back to the coach.

            Dawn helped the distraught girl fasten her clothing and offered her a weak smile before leading her back to the coach, where everyone was back on board, including the fat man Spike had shot and the unconscious driver.  He shut the door, blocked it with a piece of wood, and said to his daughter, "We're off."

            "Oh, no we're not," she said, and when he looked back she was standing with hands on hips, looking like she'd kill him with her bare hands.

            "That's how I do it," he said.

            "I hate you."

            "I pay for all your pretty things."

            "I don't _want_ them."

            Spike glared at her.  He was in a bloody awful mood.  What he really wanted was to kick the shit out of something, but he knew Dawn would shoot him with his own pistol if he did.  So he'd robbed the first coach that came along, wanting - _needing_ - the lift that came with it, and instead just feeling more depressed.  Time was, he'd have had that pretty little girl up against a tree with her skirts over her head, taking her for everything she had - jewels, money, virtue - but then Dawn was there, and he suddenly wanted her respect.

            Not to mention that the only woman he wanted to touch at all was riding back home with her godfather, having forgotten him completely.

            "You killed that man," Dawn accused.

            "I did not.  I shot his arm.  He'll be fine."

            "He could bleed to death."

            "I tied a tourniquet.  Dawn-"

            She was already turned away from him, flouncing back to her horse.  Great.  Two women in as many hours.  What was wrong with him?

            That's what you get going for longevity, Spike, he realised miserably.  You're not cut out for anything permanent.

            "Dawn," he yelled, but she was already on her horse.  "Don't you dare ride away without me!"

            "I'll do what I damn well like," she yelled back, kicking her horse away.

            Spike stepped back as she nearly rode him down and hollered after her, "Fine, but if you get attacked don't expect me to bloody rescue you."  He pulled the bar off the coach door, muttering, "These bloody roads are full of bandits."

            The frightened passengers stared out at him in confusion.

            "What are you looking at?" Spike snarled, and got on his horse to go after his daughter.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

            "Elizabeth?" Giles said as they approached his house.  She'd been quiet all the way, silent, thoughtful, looking sad.  "Buffy?"

            She looked up and offered a rather unconvincing smile.

            "Are you alright?"

            "I - I'm just tired," she said, and faked a yawn.  "Long journey.  I think I might just go to sleep for a while when we get in."

            He nodded, not convinced, and made to open the door of his house.

            It was locked.

            Frowning, he knocked.  "Miss McClay?  Tara?"

            No reply.  Confused, Giles fished for his keys.  He'd always told Tara to lock the door if she left the house, so she must have just popped out for something.  Presumably Willow had gone too.  It was strange to come home to an empty house.

            Inside, he found the fireplaces empty - usually she prepared them in the afternoon, to keep the house warm as the sun set.  There was a pile of vegetables in the kitchen, but none of them had been cooked.  Her shoes and cloak were gone, as were Willow's.

            "It's not like her to leave things this late," Anya said, frowning.

            "She probably just went to get something for supper," Xander said.

            "I'll go and look," Buffy offered, needing to be alone for a while.  She could walk around the village for a while.  No doubt Willow and Tara were just getting some meat or milk or something.

            "You want company?" Xander offered, but looked quite relieved when she said no.  None of them had missed the total absorption he and Anya had in each other.  All the way back from Angel's they'd ridden very close together and talked and giggled for hours.  Now Anya was sitting down prettily and sighing that her feet ached from all that riding.  Buffy was about to say that surely her legs would ache more, when Xander offered to rub Anya's feet.

            Buffy had no doubt he'd be moving up as soon as they were alone.

            She left Giles to his study, Xander and Anya to their unsubtle courtship, and walked out into the cool air of the late afternoon.  To go into town meant a left turn, but Buffy turned right, away from the village centre, and wandered along the empty road, between close buildings, smaller and shabbier as she walked on.

            Should she have stayed?  Should she have thought about Spike - his name was _William_, she reminded herself, but ever since she'd heard 'Spike', it had stuck.  He wasn't much of a William anyway - and defied what he'd said about their relationship having no future?

            So he'd been burned before.  So what?  It wasn't as if she was asking for a marriage proposal and lots of fat babies.  She didn't really want babies.  Not right now, anyway.  She needed to know who she was, first.

            But all her memories, pretty much every one she had, were tied up with Spike.  Spike trying to rob Willow and Xander.  Spike tied to a kitchen chair, glaring at her.  Spike rushing towards her in the middle of the night, desperate for her touch.  His mouth, his eyes, his body - oh God, his body...

            His voice saying there was no one like her.  "I wanted you even when you were throwing rocks at me."  Telling her he could never refuse her anything.  Well, he'd changed his mind pretty sharpish on that one.

            Let him go, she told herself firmly.  Let him sod off and be a lonesome highwayman.  She could highwayman him into the ground.  One day, she thought, one day I'll get that... that... that _prat_ and I'll rob him blind.  Everything he has.

            Even his clothes.

            Mmm.

            She shook his head.  "Don't need him," she said aloud.  "Never did.  Don't need anyone."

            "Perdita?" came a voice from very low down, and she stopped, confused.  She looked around.  She was by a small, dark alley.  No one in it.  Puzzled, she walked a step or two further, then the voice came again.  It was familiar.  And besides, who still called her Perdita?

            "Willow?"

            "Down here," Willow said, and Buffy caught the movement of her pale hand behind the bars of a cellar window.  She ran down the alley and crouched at the window, looking in to see Willow in a tiny, dark filthy cell.  She was alone.

            "What are you doing in there?"  Buffy looked at the building.  "Isn't this the town hall?"

            Willow nodded, her face dirty and streaked with tears.  "Oh Perdita, am I glad to see you!  Oh - wait, the schoolteacher is looking for you-"

            "He found me," Buffy interrupted.  "What's going on?  Why are you in a cell?"

            Willow looked wretched.  "They're going to burn us," she said.

            "What?  Who?  Us?"

            "Me and Tara.  They say we're witches."

            "Why?"

            "We, uh, well, it doesn't matter.  We're not," Willow added, more firmly.

            "I believe you."

            "They're going to burn us tonight.  When it gets dark."  Her voice caught on a sob.  "I tried to get them to reason but they said we needed to be made an example of.  They wouldn't even wait for Mr Giles to get back."

            "Well, he's back now," Buffy said, and stood up, her mind whirring.  "Wait there."

            "What else am I supposed to do?" Willow asked plaintively, but Buffy was already gone.

            Spike rode hard after Dawn, but she was smaller and lighter and her horse was more rested than his.  She was always too far ahead of him.  And he'd no idea where they were going.  He'd started them out on the road home, but now she was doubling back... south, was it?  It was getting late, the sun was falling in the sky.  Falling to his right, which meant they were going south.

            Maybe to her lawyer.

            Maybe she was just trying to shake him off.

            Bloody women!

            He came to a crossroads laced with hoof patterns.  There was no time to check them all for her tracks.  Riding up to a peddlar selling trinkets, Spike demanded of him, "Did you see a young woman ride through here?  Blue velvet, dark hair, chestnut horse?"

            The peddlar looked at him calculatingly.  "Maybe," he said slowly.

            Damn stupid bloody man, looking for money.  Spike had no time for that.  He couldn't let Dawn just tear around on her own.  What if something happened?

            He got out his gun and aimed it at the man's greasy head.  "I am William the Bloody," he said, "and I shoot people like you for fun.  Tell me where she went or I'll blow your bloody head off and use your entrails for a breadcrumb trail."

            The peddlar pointed.  "That way.  Five minutes ago."

            Spike holstered the gun.  "Isn't giving fun?"

            "...so the townspeople threw them both in jail and they're going to burn them tonight," Buffy finished breathlessly.  She'd already told Giles, who'd rushed off to the town hall to try and talk some sense into the captain of the militia, and now she was telling Xander and Anya.

            "How awful," Anya said.  "Although it is getting rather cold, so at least they'll be warm."

            Buffy stared at her for a second or two, then snapped her attention back to Xander.  "We have to do something."

            "Agreed.  Maybe we could make a distraction and sneak in and get them out."

            Anya shook her head.  "The town hall is a warren: it's a very old building and they've basically just added layers and layers to it as they needed.  You need a map just to find the captain's office."

            "Do you have a map?"

            "I was speaking metaphorically.  You'd never get in."

            "Then maybe we could break open the cell window..." Xander said.

            "Steel bars," Buffy said.  "Set in stone."

            "Get a horse to pull them out."

            "The alley's tiny."

            "Well, you think of something, then!"

            "Maybe Mr Giles will-" Buffy broke off when she heard the front door slam.  Giles stomped in, carrying all hell about him, and let off an impressive string of curse words.

            "I take it the captain wouldn't be moved," Buffy said into the sudden silence.

            "He says they must be destroyed as an example to the ungodly," Giles seethed.

            "Ungodly?  Look, maybe Will's not that devout, but she doesn't eat pork or anything-" Xander began.

            "It's her Judaism that's part of the problem," Giles said.  "Apparently they were overheard talking about it, and Willow was heard to say something about being burned before..."

            "Yeah," Xander looked uneasy.  "Once or twice."

            "What?" Anya stared at him.

            "Well, she does tend to unsettle people.  She doesn't do it on purpose, but what with the hair and the lack of churchiness-"

            "The _hair_?" Buffy said.

            "Red hair is a sign of witchcraft," Anya explained, and when she got several sharp looks, added, "or so say uninformed, ignorant, idiotic, sheeplike peasants."

            "We have to do something," Buffy said.

            "They're already building the fire," Giles said in despair.

            Buffy thought quickly, but the thought that immediately came to mind was that she needed help.  "Right," she said.  "Giles, you go back to the town hall and carry on arguing.  Maybe you can get them to see sense.  Xander, Anya, you try and sabotage the fire.  Pour water on it or something.  Delay it as much as you can.  Hide the wood.  Anything."

            "And you?" Xander asked, reaching for his coat.

            "I'm going to get help."

            "From whom?" Giles said.

            Buffy closed her eyes.  She didn't really want to, but she knew she had to ask him.  "Angel," she said.  "He'll help me."

            Spike rode into a ramshackle little village and was about to rampage straight through when he realised that there was two roads out of the place.  Who'd have thought so many people came and went?

            "Bollocks," he said, and slowed down.  "Have you seen-?"

            But he stopped abruptly when another horse came cannoning through the village.  A bigger horse, not really used to being ridden, a farm horse probably, but it wasn't the animal that caught his attention.  It was the rider, a small figure in men's clothes, long loose hair streaming out behind her.

            Buffy.

            Spike stopped and stared for a few seconds, awestruck.  By God, she was beautiful.  Flushed and strong and - about to ride into him.

            He swung his horse away just in time, and she slowed and cantered back in a circle.

            "Spike?  What are you doing here?"

            "Chasing Dawn."

            "You know, I thought I saw her going the other way."

            Spike's eyes narrowed.  She'd been going to see Buffy.  Silly bint.  "What are you doing?"

            "Going for help.  I-" every cell in her body screamed for her to stay and talk with him - and then do a lot more - but she knew she had to keep going.  Every second she lingered was a second that could kill Willow and Tara.  She'd wasted enough time changing her clothes, but they were so much better to ride in.

            "Help?"  Instantly he was alert.  "Are you in trouble?"

            "No, Willow is."

            He frowned.  "Red?  What's she got herself into?"

            "The townspeople think she's a witch.  They want to burn her.  Also Giles said something about Sapphism that I didn't really get, but-"

            She broke off when she say Spike's luscious mouth twitch.

            "Are you _laughing_?"

            She looked so angry, so beautiful, that he did laugh.  "Sapphism," he said.  "It's... You might call it..."

            "Yes?"

            Her eyes were glittering.  He wanted to shag her right there, on top of her horse, in the middle of the village.  "It's physical love between women."

            Buffy's face twisted.  "That's disgusting!  How dare they accuse her of-"

            Spike put his hand over her mouth before she got carried away.  "Why don't we go and find out if it's true?"  Please God, let it be true.

            "It's not," Buffy said.  "That's revolting and unnatural."

            "Which is probably why they're going to burn her," Spike said.  "When?"

            "Tonight?"  Buffy looked anxiously at the darkening sky.  "They could be starting right now.  God, I shouldn't have left, I should be back there-"

            "Then we'll go back there."

            "What about Dawn?"

            Spike looked torn.  He thought of his daughter, riding hell bent for leather to someone she'd met a grand total of once, and suddenly realised she'd be all right.  She'd been all right for sixteen years so far.  She'd manage without him for one more night.  He could go and find her in the morning.

            Buffy needed his help.

            They rode back to Giles's village, and reined in just outside the square.  It was dark in the shadows, but outside their little alley the streets were filled with flames from all the torches being carried by what looked like most of the villagers.

            Willow and Tara were being tied back to back against a fat post set in the ground, bundles of wood thrown at their feet.  A man in uniform was reading out charges against them.

            "Just for the record, love," Spike whispered as he checked his pistol, "it's not revolting and unnatural."

            "What?"  Buffy was only half listening as she stared at the bailiff with the charge sheet.  Most of what he was saying was preposterous.

            "If they're in love, why not, you know, have fun with each other?"

            She tore her eyes away and looked at him.  "'Have fun'?  They're two women, it's-"

            "Not actually any different than a man and a woman.  Why is it you're happy to shag around with me, who you hardly know, but you think two women pleasuring each other is wrong?"

            Buffy didn't have an answer to that.

            "Anyway, you can't be too disgusted, or you wouldn't be thinking of saving them."

            Buffy frowned at him.  "Why are you here?"

            "Uh, to help you."

            "You hardly know them at all."

            Neither do you, Spike wanted to say, but the fact that you want to help them makes me want to, too.

            "It was a slow night," he said, and handed her his gun.  "You know how to use this?"

            Buffy stared at the pistol.  She didn't remember ever really using one, but she knew definitely that she'd done it before.

            "I think I do."

            "Of course.  You're the Slayer."

            Buffy looked at him and realised that she was hearing pride in his voice.

            "Okay," she said.  "Here's what we need to do."

            "You have a plan?"

            "We ride in there and cut them free and get them the hell out," Buffy said.

            "Good plan."

            "I'll get Tara, you get Willow."

            "Willow's smaller.  You take her."

            Buffy glared at him.  "I can manage Tara."

            He saw the glint in her eyes, and grinned.  And later, he thought, you're going to shag me rotten.  "All right.  You get the blonde, I'll get the redhead.  We'll meet back at-" she'd been about to say Giles's, but that was a stupid idea, so she said, "the crossroads back the way we came.  Right?"

            "And then what?"

            "I'll figure that out later," Buffy said.  "Ready?"

            They were suddenly aware it had gone very quiet.  The bailiff had stopped reading.

            There was an almighty crackle.  They'd lit the fire.

            "Ready," Spike said, and spurred his horse to an immediate gallop.

            Buffy followed, quite suddenly afraid, and cantered out into the square.  She glanced at the pyre and wished she'd come up with a better plan: the girls were tied in the middle of a stack of wood about fifteen foot deep.  The flames hadn't reached them yet, but they were spreading quickly.

            Right then there was another commotion, for Xander had just ridden out of the shadows on the other side of the square, carrying a yoke over his shoulders, filled with water which he threw at the girls.  Buffy knew it probably wouldn't make much difference, but they might burn slower.

            "It's been too well guarded," he yelled to Buffy.  "I couldn't - wait, is that William the Bloody?"

            Heads turned to where Spike was just drawing a sword in preparation for charging the pyre.  He rolled his eyes in exasperation.

            "Cheers," he muttered.  Someone screamed.  The men on horses who had been ringing the crowd all drew their swords.

            "Catch him!" cried the captain.

            What happened next was unclear to Buffy.  She was halfway across the square on her way to rescuing Willow, so she figured she might as well carry on riding.  She fired her pistol at the ropes tying the girls to the pole, and had it reloaded by the time the smoke cleared.  She was impressed with herself: she hadn't even thought about what to do with the shot and powder.  She'd just reloaded it.

            And there were Willow and Tara, scrambling free.  Buffy spared a wild glance to where she'd last seen Spike, far away on the other side of the crowd, a charge of militiamen converging on him, and then she looked back at Willow and Tara.

            "Jump!"

            She caught Willow and hauled her up onto the horse's back, but then she realised there was just not enough room for them all.  Tara was looking anxiously at the flames which were starting to lick at her skirts, and Buffy jumped down from the horse, which rushed into the shadows, away from the loud flames, Willow hanging on for dear life.

            When Tara thudded to the ground, her skirt on fire, Buffy stamped it out and grabbed Tara and hauled her away.  The militia had started to realise there was something else going on and were coming over to see why there was no one screaming in agony at the flaming stake.

            "Buffy!" someone yelled, an oddly familiar voice, and she saw Dawn on a horse in a side alley, along with Giles and Anya.  Xander was riding over to them and he scooped Tara up without breaking his stride.

            "Go," Buffy told him.  "Get out of here."

            "What about you?"

            "I'll be fine.  Xander, go!  To Angel's.  He'll take care of you.  All of you."

            "You can-"

            "That's six people and three horses.  You can't carry me and besides," she looked over at the heavy scrum of men surrounding Spike, "I need to get him out of here.  We'll catch you up, I promise."

            Xander nodded unhappily, but he got the others on the horses and led them out of the square.  A couple of the militiamen on their horses started after the party, but Buffy twirled her sword in a way she'd never have expected she could manage, and cut two of them down, getting the second on the backstroke from the first.

            He fell into the fire and rolled away with a scream, and Buffy watched the fire spread across the square with him.  The third man reached for his gun and Buffy grabbed the bridle of one of the free horses and swung herself up onto his back, the shot echoing where she'd just been, making the horse dart away.

            There were too many for her to cope with.  Shots were ringing out from Spike's corner of the square, but she couldn't see clearly past the flames to know what was happening.  Her horse, badly trained and skittish with fear, shied away from the tall flames of the massive pyre, and Buffy clung to the reins.  The man with the gun was taking out his sword and coming for her, and Buffy glanced around for some escape.  A couple of alleys, down which he'd no doubt chase her.  A low roof.

            The roof.

            She dug her heels into the horse's sides and charged him straight at the militiaman, who looked startled, especially when Buffy punched him in the face and grabbed his gun.  She rode on past him as he fell and grabbed the low roof as she cantered past it.  The thatch was slippery but her grip held and she hauled herself up to the top, unseen by the crowd below.  Most of the villagers had retreated at the sight of the spreading fire, and from up here she could see that there weren't as many men attacking Spike as she'd feared.  A couple more had ridden off after Xander and the others, and she hoped to God at least one of the party was armed.

            Well, Dawn would be.  And even if she wasn't, she'd just need to glare at the militiamen and they'd drop dead, Buffy was pretty sure of it.

            She crept along the top of the roof for a better vantage point.  Several buildings were on fire now: the fallen man had knocked some of the badly-built pyre into a wooden-framed house and it was spreading all over, from thatch to thatch, along fences and through houses.  People were screaming.  Some of the horsemen retreated.

            There were four left, and Spike was in the centre.  Buffy thought fast.  She loaded both her guns, took off her hat and pulled her shirt off.  Spare shot and powder ready, she whistled, and when that didn't work, fired a shot into the sky.

            All five men looked up at this shot from such an unexpected direction, and then they saw a beautiful woman on the roof, naked to the waist, hair whipping in the breeze from the flames, outlined in the moonlight.

            They all stopped and stared at her.

            Then one fell back on his horse as Buffy's gun shot him straight in the head.

            Spike recovered first - he'd seen it before and was slightly more capable of thought processes in the vicinity of naked Buffy - and shot one of the men while swinging his sword around and slashing another.  He daren't look up at Buffy in case she distracted him, but if he had, he'd have seen her reloading her  to shoot at the fourth man.  She did, but not before he'd already shot at Spike.

            She watched him fall, blood spreading over his shirt, and for the first time since she'd taken her shirt off, she felt cold.  All over.  She wasn't aware of how she got to the ground, but suddenly she was running over to him, there were more people rushing into the unburnt side of the square, more men on horses, with guns, militia from the nest town probably, and Buffy knew she had to get Spike out of there.  Through the flames, or through the militia.

            She took a breath and grabbed his body and slung it up onto the nearest horse, swinging up behind him and digging her heels in.  Thankfully this was a better trained horse, and although it balked when she turned it towards the fire, it ran on and they escaped through a narrow alley of flames, heading out of town in an unknown direction, out over fields, through woods, far from any normal roads, across country, the horse racing as fast as Buffy could make it.

            Spike's body lolled back against her own, his shirt red with blood, and she wasn't even aware there were tears streaming down her face until she glanced behind, realised they hadn't been followed for the last ten miles, and slowed the horse down in a deep wood.

            She slid from the saddle and pulled Spike down with her, wiping her eyes.  She was dirty and ashy and bleeding and she didn't care, because he was hurt worse.  A lot worse.

            She hauled him into her lap and tried to make sense of where he'd been shot.  He had a pulse but it wasn't terribly strong, and there was so much blood that in the darkness, she couldn't see where it was all coming from.

            "Spike," she sniffed.  "Don't you dare bloody die on me.  I'll kill you if you do."

            He stirred in her arms, and she yelled at him for a bit but he didn't wake up.

            Buffy knew she had to move fast.

            She got him back on the horse and rode through the wood until she found a path.  Then she followed the path until she found a village.  Then she pulled Spike's (thankfully unharmed) greatcoat over him, and shoved her hat low on her face and led the horse into the yard of the local inn.  Spike lolled, but she held him up and gave a grin to the stableboy.

            "Master's had a skinful," she said in what she hoped sounded like a boy's voice.  "You got a room he can sleep it off in?"

            The boy took them up to a small room, and in return for a penny, brought her a needle and thread, a kettle, and some whisky.  Buffy lit the fire and put a lamp by the bed, and started tearing up the bedsheet to make some bandages, which she sterilised in the kettle.  She boiled the needle and thread, slapped Spike to see if he was still unconscious, and then poured some whisky into the bulletwound, which was on his shoulder.

            Then she started to sew.

            It took her hours - or at least, it felt like it.  She'd stopped crying now, more confident in her task, exhaustion taking over from emotion.  It had been a long day: last night she'd been having glorious sex with Spike and now she was mopping up blood from what could very nearly have been a mortal wound.  There was a cut on his head – a long gash made by a sword, and it needed stitching.  Wincing, Buffy took the scissors that had come with the sewing kit and started to cut away his hair, apologizing silently to him.

            Her eyes were closing by the time she'd finished digging out the bullet  - there had been no exit wound, which was good news for his leather coat but not so good for his muscles - and sewing him up and cleaning the blood off them both.  She rinsed out both their clothes and hung them by the banked fire, then she looked back at him lying there on the bed, bare chest rising and falling, right shoulder completely obscured by bandages, and he still looked beautiful to her.

                She blew out the lamp and fell onto the bed, curled up by his good side and finally, finally closed her eyes and let sleep take her.

_There's a scientifically proven formula to prove that the more reviews I get, the faster I'll update. ;-) _

_Also, if people don't say nice things, I'll let Spike get septicemia and die._

_So leave me a little review, actually you can yell at me if you want, so long as you've read the damn thing.  And then I'll update.  Won't that be nice?_


	12. Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

**Your faith was strong but you needed proof**

**You saw her bathing on the roof**

**Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you**

**She tied you to a kitchen chair**

**She broke your throne, she cut your hair**

**And from your lips she drew the hallelujah**__

_ (So okay, I promised myself no lyrics posting on this one, being that it's a period fic and all, but I just heard this and not only is it beautiful, it could have been written for this damn story!  Cookie if you know where it's from)_

            "Where did you say they were going?" Giles asked Xander, who was sitting by the fire with Anya looking on adoringly, drinking Angel's Irish whisky.

            "I don't know," Xander said.  "She said they'd catch up."

            "Maybe they're dead," Anya said, and when Giles, Xander and Angel glared at her, gave an 'all right, whatever' face and muttered, "Or maybe they both escaped entirely unscathed."

            Giles slumped in his chair.  "She's right.  They could both be badly hurt.  Or worse."

            "I'll go," Angel said.

            "Go where?  Last I saw, the whole village was burning down," Xander said, and Giles winced.

            "My store!" Anya cried.

            "Uh, I think your store was on the other side of the village," Xander said quickly.

            She looked heartbroken.  "What if it's burnt?  All those goods, and all my money!"

            "Not to mention our home and everything in it," Giles added drily.

            "I'm sure your money's fine," Xander said.

            "Will you come and comfort me?" Anya said.

            "Well, of course-"

            "And then we'll have lots of sex?"

            Xander started to turn red.

            "Being that I'm all emotionally vulnerable.  You may take advantage of me," she offered, giving him a brave smile.

            Xander leapt to his feet.  "Lady needs comforting," he said, and dragged Anya from the room as Giles covered his eyes.

            "I didn't need to see that.  Angel," he looked up at the younger man, "do you think you could find them?"

            "I think I can try," Angel said, draining his whisky.

            "May I ask what they are to you?"

            Angel grinned.  "Family," he said.  "Of a sort.  Young Will's like the brother I never wanted."

            "And Buffy, she's like a sister to you?"

            Angel opened his mouth, then he shut it again.

            "Right," Giles said, wishing he'd never asked.  "Where do you think they might be?"

            They were, at that moment, both unconscious in a locked room at an unknown inn many miles away.  Buffy was so tired that sleep fell on her like a heavy blanket and she stayed curled up to Spike until long after the sky got light.

            He woke first, blood throbbing in his head and his shoulder, confused as to where he was and what he was doing there.  For a minute or two his memory failed him as he looked down at Buffy, half-naked at his side, and the bandage she'd used to bind his arm to his chest.  Then he remembered: the girls, the fire, the men with guns.  He'd been doing okay until Buffy pulled her little stunt.  Which had got rid of three of them, he had to admit.  And then there'd been the fourth.  Bastard.

            He looked at Buffy, her eyes pink with smoke - or had she been crying?  There were smudges of blood and dirt on her face, her hair was smoky and there was a cut on her arm that she'd very carelessly bandaged.  She looked small and frail and so precious his heart turned over.

            She'd saved his life.

            He'd been ever so vaguely aware of her getting him out of there, and then a while after she'd cried his name and probed his shoulder and pain had overtaken him and he'd passed out completely.  Just as well.  He didn't want to really have had to watch her sewing him up.

            He touched his head, which hurt, and was horrified to feel that she'd cut all his hair off.  Never mind the long cut along his scalp, what had happened to his hair?  That was practically his trademark!

            Wildly, he cast around for his coat and was relieved to see it draped over a chest at the foot of the bed.  His movements woke Buffy, who frowned and curled closer, not wanting to wake up.

            Then something startled her, and her eyes flew open.

            "Morning," Spike said.

            She looked up at him, slight fear giving way to exhausted relief.  "You're awake."

            "And starting to wish I wasn't."

            She frowned again.  "How do you feel?"

            "You cut my hair."

            He sounded quite accusatory.  Buffy sat up and glared at him.  "Next time I'll let you bleed to death, then."  Spike's eyes hovered on her chest, and she remembered she'd taken her shirt off.  Blushing, she pulled the scratchy blanket up over herself, and Spike reached out with his free hand to touch her shoulder.

            "You really did all this?"

            "The fixing up, yes.  The getting horribly wounded part you managed all by yourself."

            "Actually, I seem to remember I was trying to help you out."

            Buffy said nothing.  She reached over to the fireguard and picked up her shirt, which was just about dry, and pulled it on.

            "Buffy?"

            She looked distant.

            "Thank you," Spike said, and at that she looked up.  "I - you... well, you saved my life, didn't you?  And I'm quite attached to it.  My life, I mean.  So thanks."

            She gave him a small smile.

            "Are you all right?  There's that cut on your arm, and you're-"

            "I'm all right."

            He frowned.  "No, you're not."  He tried to sit up, but it hurt far too much, and Buffy quickly pressed him down.

            "You should stay still.  You've been hurt pretty badly."  She reached in the pocket of his greatcoat and withdrew a small pellet.  "I had to dig this out of you."

            He looked at the little lead ball, misshapen from its trip through his muscle and bone.

            "Thank you."

            "You're welcome," she said absently, and got off the bed.

            "Hey - Buffy!  Where are you going?"

            "For some water.  To wash.  I-" she looked distressed, and Spike reached out to her.  She took his hand, and when he pulled her closer she let him.

            "What is it, love?"

            She closed her eyes, and a tear leaked out.

            "I remember."

            "Yeah, me too.  Let's not take on any more militia for a while, eh?"

            "No, not that," she said.  "Well, yes, that, but I mean I... I remember everything else, too."

            He frowned for a second and pulled her back down against him.  "Everything?"

            "Before the storm.  My mother, and Giles, and Riley and Faith and everyone..."

            She sobbed against his chest, and although he was burning with curiosity, Spike let her.  When she'd calmed down, she lifted her head and said, "I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have done that."

            "Cry all you want," he said.  "I won't tell anyone."

            "It's just all so sudden.  All these memories just slamming back in my head.  And you know why?"

            He shook his head, and she touched the bandage on his shoulder.

            "You.  I thought I might lose you.  And I remembered feeling exactly the same three months ago."

            Spike brought his hand up to her dirty hair and stroked it.  "Tell me?"

            Buffy took in a few breaths, uneven after her tears, and said, "I don't know where to start."

            "Tell me your name."

            "Buffy - Elizabeth Ann Summers.  My parents were Henry and Joyce.  My father died when I was small."

            "Any brothers or sisters?"

            "No, but there was a girl I grew up with.  Her parents died when she was young and she lived with us."

            "Faith?" Spike guessed.

            "Faith.  She was... she was unbelievable.  So brave, and completely insane.  Always climbing trees and swimming across the river.  Sneaking out to the tavern and turning up the next morning in the stables with some boy from the town."

            "Sounds-" he'd been about to say 'like my kind of girl', but she wasn't, not really, because she wasn't like Buffy.  And Buffy was- "like fun."

            "Well, she was.  Usually.  And other times she scared me.  But then I..."

            "What?" Spike asked softly.

            "I met Angel.  He wasn't like anyone I'd ever known.  He tried to rob me several times but I always beat him.  A couple of times I, uh, knocked him out.  Once I was terrified I'd killed him, but he was just playing dead so I'd take him home and put him in my bed."

            Spike wasn't entirely sure he wanted to hear this.

            "And Faith got a little jealous.  Especially when Angel started training me up as his partner."

            What kind of partner? Spike wondered, but he was pretty sure he already knew.

            "And then after a while... Well, I didn't really need Angel any more.  And Faith wanted to learn, so I teamed up with her.  I didn't want her going out alone.  She was a little too headstrong.  She never planned anything."

            "Sounds familiar."

            Buffy bashed his good shoulder.  "And then I met Riley," she said, making her voice deliberately misty, although she'd never really felt like that about Riley.  At the time she'd convinced herself she loved him, but she knew she didn't.  Not really.  She'd loved Angel, but Riley was just...

            Well, she'd always felt like she should love him.  He was so handsome and sure and strong.  Polite, kind, clever, and there were occasional flashes of dry humour that surprised the hell out of her.  But most of the time he was just... well, a little bit... _boring_.

            But Angel had left - for many reasons, but Buffy knew it would never have worked between them - and there was Riley with his broad shoulders and square jaw and lieutenant's uniform and his marriage proposal, and Buffy had been depressed and he was kind and dependable, so she said yes.

            And then went out and robbed coach after coach just to cheer herself up.

            Realising she'd gone silent, Buffy went on, "He never knew about the Slayer thing.  He was in the militia."

            "Oh.  _Them_," Spike said, darkly enough to make her laugh.

            "He was a good man," Buffy said, "but I..."

            "Sounds dull," Spike said, and she laughed again, because that was exactly what Riley had been.

            "But he was nice, and there really wasn't any reason for me to say no to him, so when he asked me to marry him, I said yes.  And I was going to give up the Slayer thing, because really it was a stupid risk, but... But if I did that then everything would just be so goddamn boring and... And Faith said she wasn't going to stop.  And she started scaring me.  Spike - you said you'd heard of the Slayer...?"

            "All America's heard of you, love," he said, and he said it with pride.

            "Well, there were two of us.  Only no one ever knew that.  They only ever saw one at a time.  And when it was me, I tried not to hurt people.  I just took their jewels and stuff.  And only from people who could afford it."

            "My little Robyn Hood," Spike murmured.

            "But Faith... she got violent.  That's when we started getting called Slayer.  Because Faith killed some people.  Not many, and I really think she was sorry, but..."

            "Doesn't take much to make a reputation, pet."

            She was quiet for a bit, and when she spoke again, she sounded distant.  "Faith was always hard to control.  I tried to stop her doing dangerous stuff but she just told me I was being a coward.  And I don't want to sound stupid, but-"

            "You're the bravest person I know," Spike said quietly, and when Buffy looked up at him, he smiled at her and brought his hand around to caress her face.  "I mean that."

            She sniffed, touched, and kissed his palm.  "Just as well you never met Faith.  Although she was less brave than... sometimes a bit stupid.  She got reckless and the governor decided the Slayer had to be caught.  So he sent the militia out to set a trap.  And Faith... fell right into it."

            She was silent again, and Spike waited for her to continue.  He had a feeling he knew where this was going.  Why else was she talking about Faith in the past tense?

            "I still don't know exactly what happened - she swore she didn't kill him but someone did.  I can still see him.  I felt so guilty because I hadn't made him happy enough and then he'd died and it was partly my fault."

            "Riley died?"

            She sniffed.  "In the ambush.  Faith was hurt but she got away and came back to us.  We had to hide her in the servant's cabins, because the rest of the men - the ones she hadn't slaughtered - they followed her.  Came after the Slayer.  They locked us in - house arrest.  Faith died, but we couldn't even tell anyone because if they knew how she'd been hurt, they'd have known where she was."

            "Did it matter, after she was dead?"

            "Yes," Buffy said, "it mattered."

            Silence, then Spike asked, "How did you get away?"

            "Riley's funeral.  Remember?  I was his grieving fiancée," she said bitterly.  "My mother - she knew about the Slayer thing, in the end.  She sort of had to.  We hid spare clothes under our cloaks - bucket skirts are a great invention - and money, and we just got on a pair of horses and rode.  We got on the first ship we came to.  The Redoubtable."

            Her head was still on his chest, and he felt the wetness of her tears against his skin.  He held her as she cried, cried for her friend and her fiancée and her mother, all that grief so suddenly, so cripplingly remembered.  And he nearly cried too, because he couldn't bear to see her so hurt.

            And when her tears had subsided again he hauled her up his body so her face was nearer his, and he kissed her, desperate with reassurance.  He was never going to leave her the way they had.

            He was never going to leave her again.

            "Spike," she stroked his hair, felt the short curls that had sprung up when his hair got wet from her washing of it.  "I'm so glad you're here."

            "Wouldn't be anywhere else."

            It was hard to hug him without hurting him, but Buffy tried her best.  And then she kissed him to make up for the lousy hug.  Spike's fingers tousled in her hair and he didn't seem to care that it was coated with smoke and ash and blood.  He didn't seem to care what a state she was in.  She'd felt desperation like that before, from Angel when he left her.  She'd loved him so much then, and hated him for leaving her, but now...

            Now it was hard to remember what she'd seen in him.

            She kissed Spike, unable to leave his delicious mouth alone, wanting to be gentle because he was hurt, needing to be close to him because he was so important and she'd nearly lost him.  Riding away from him had been bad enough, but now...

            He could have been gone forever.  And maybe she could live not being with him, knowing he was alive somewhere else and one day she might be able to touch him again, but to know he was gone forever and there was no way she'd ever even see him once more... That thought terrified her so much her bones trembled and she kissed Spike so hard he pulled back in shock.  His lip was bleeding and Buffy realised in horror that she'd almost bitten right through it.

            "Oh God, I'm sorry..."

            He licked his lip.  "I've been hurt worse."

            "I - we shouldn't-" she started to climb off him, but Spike wrapped his good arm about her shoulders and pulled her firmly back down to him.

            "And why the hell not?"

            "You're hurt.  You've lost a lot of blood and you're weak, and I don't want to-" he kissed her again, "hurt you," and again, "any more than," and once more, "the hell with it," she spread her fingers in his hair and snogged him fiercely.

            "It's good for what ails me," Spike said when he let her go and Buffy, breathless, figured it couldn't really do him any harm.

            Surely.

            If it did, she'd stop.

            She was fairly sure she could stop.

            Right?

            She dropped her had and started licking his exposed nipple.  The other was covered by his arm, which she'd bandaged to his chest to restrict his shoulder, but one of them was free and she made Spike moan by flicking it with her teeth.

            His hand slid up under her shirt, he found her breast and started stroking her nipple in return.  Buffy arched and sucked on him, and he pulled her head up and yanked her shirt off, grabbing her around the shoulders and pulling her forward so he could lick her breasts.

            "We should probably go slowly," Buffy said, trying not to pant.  "No point in - oh! - going over the, uh, the, uh..."

            His hand was kneading her other breast, and she lost her place in the conversation.  His mouth was so hot, wet and dark and _right_, and Buffy thought there was a metaphor in that.  He'd take her in his hot, wet, dark mouth and then she'd take him in her tight, hot, red...

            She had to stop thinking like that, or it'd all be over embarassingly soon.

            She pulled away from him and climbed off the bed, and Spike looked confused until he realised she was pushing off her breeches and shoving away the blanket over his legs.  She took off the rest of his clothes - she'd not wanted him to get cold, so she'd kept him half dressed - and stood for a while, looking at him.

            "I'm stronger than I look," he said, trying to sit up again and failing somewhat.

            Buffy grinned.  "I know.  We'll just go niiiiice and," she crawled back up his body to straddle him, "_slowly_," and leaned forward so her breasts were almost brushing his chest.  Spike groaned and pulled her down for another kiss, digging his fingers into her spine, making her arch against him.  She trailed kisses down his neck, gentle butterfly kisses all over his sore, aching shoulder, then down to his stomach, his muscles clenching in anticipation.

            She kissed his thighs first, licking him until he groaned, "Buffy, please don't torture me like that.  I'm a hurt man."

            She laughed, a low throaty laugh that made him harder, and then she was laughing around him, her lips and tongue doing exquisite things to him, and he let out a sigh of relief and pleasure.  Her hair tickled his thighs and his stomach, her hands rested on his hips, kneading the lean covering of muscle.  This, Spike thought, was surely what heaven was like.  Minus the fucked shoulder, of course.  A beautiful woman giving him delirious pleasure.  Did it get any better than this?

            And then it occurred to him that it could get better.  He reached down and lifted Buffy's head, and she looked up at him with hot, dark eyes and a damp red mouth, and he had to concentrate hard on not giving her a faceful - _of pointless, dead sperm, useless, sterile_ - before he caught his breath and said, "I have an idea."

            "Do tell."

            It was one of the things Dru had come up with.  He didn't think of her often, but when he did it was usually connected with sex.  That girl had known astonishing things about pleasing a man.  And getting her own pleasure, too.  But somehow it had always seemed... sort of dirty.  Great while he was actually shagging her, but then rather sordid afterwards.

            He banished her from his mind and looked up at Buffy, who was regarding him expectantly.  He beckoned her closer and she crawled up him, then he told her to turn around and she smiled, evidently figuring it out for herself.  Smart girl.

            She knelt over his face and he breathed her in.  The hot scent of hopeless arousal.  With his free hand he reached up and fingered the hot red folds above him, and Buffy let out a little moan.

            Then she dipped her head and took him back into her mouth.

            Spike allowed himself a second or two to bask, then he licked into her, making her shudder.  He slid his tongue up inside her, swirled it around, and she returned the favour, making spirals with her own, exquisitely talented tongue.

            Spike brought his fingers into play.  Buffy did the same, cupping his balls and stroking them softly.  He stroked her harder, knowing it wouldn't be long before she cracked him.  Although maybe, maybe she'd let him inside first.  And he could feel her tightening around him, that delicious tightness he adored so much.  He hardened his tongue and pushed it up inside her again, and she moaned, her voice vibrating right through him.

            Please don't do that again, he thought desperately, pinching her clitoris to try and get her there before him, but it backfired and she moaned again and Spike, unable to help himself, spurted into her mouth, coming hard and copious against her lips and her tongue.

            Buffy swallowed once or twice, then she sat up, a little shakily, and rolled off Spike, who'd been in danger of inflicting harm on her while he was coming so hard.

            She knelt by his head and looked down at him.  His eyes were closed and he was breathing hard.

            "I'm sorry," he murmured.

            She stroked his short hair.  It rather suited him.  "What for?"

            "I wanted to... It was over too soon."

            Buffy laughed.  "I thought that was rather flattering."

            His eyes opened.  "Yes, but you didn't..."

            "Plenty of opportunity for that."  She smiled.  "Now, you know what?"

            He looked wary.  That was a very bright smile.  "Er, what?"

            "You're still all smoky and sweaty.  And I just didn't get around to cleaning you up properly last night.  So..."

            She got off the bed and padded over to the fire, set it going again, and hooked the kettle above the low flames.  Spike watched, mystified.

            "Time for a sponge-bath," Buffy said, a wicked glint in her eye.

            If he'd been asked to rate his top ten erotic fantasies, Spike would probably never have picked a sponge bath.  But due to the fact that his nurse was naked and lush and kept kissing him all the time, and spent a lot of time washing carefully between his legs, this particular fantasy was fast rising.  Rather like something else.

            And then Buffy looked at herself and exclaimed, "Gosh, look how dirty I am!  You know, maybe I should wash myself..."

            "I'll help," Spike heard himself offering hoarsely, and she grinned, and said, "But how?  I don't want you straining yourself."

            "Sit here," Spike patted his stomach, and she did, bringing over the bucket so he could dip the cloth in and run it gently over her face and neck, her shoulders and her arms.  Her breasts, the nipples already hard and pink.  Her tight, flat stomach, which still fascinated him.  A woman with muscles.  Who'd have thought that would be sexy?

            Then down over her thighs, and she knelt up so he could wash her legs properly, right down to her toes, saving the best for last.

            He dropped the cloth in the bucket and dipped his fingers in instead.  Then he slipped then between her legs, finding her already slick and glistening, wet against him.  She closed her eyes as he stroked her, his fingers hard and rough but their movement gentle, a caress against her sensitive flesh.

            She rocked against him, and Spike wished dearly he could use his other hand to touch her.  To feel those beautiful breasts, heavy with desire, to run his fingers down her long smooth back, to stroke the backs of her knees.  Lord, how he wanted to touch her.

            He slid two fingers up inside her, and watched her mouth open, her lips parting on a silent gasp.  Red mouth, swollen and shiny.  He wanted to touch that, too.

            He pressed his thumb against her clitoris and moved it in little circles.  A second gasp - more of a moan this time.  She was so wet his whole hand was slippery, three fingers stabbing into her now, making her writhe against him, her body bucking, pressing down into the pleasure he was giving her.  She had one hand on his chest, steadying herself, the other on his wrist, keeping him there.  As if he'd stop.

            Her breath came faster, she bit her lip and her head rolled back, her hair so long it tickled him.

            It tickled him in a very sensitive place indeed.

            Spike watched her face and decided to push it.  He curled his hand and slid his fourth finger into her.  Buffy let out a hiss of breath and pushed herself down onto his hand, and he was hardly moving at all as she rocked on him, eyes closed, concentrating hard, biting her lip so hard she nearly drew blood of her own, and then she came, wet and wordless, gasping, almost silent, flooding his palm.  He curled his fingers inside her and she flinched with pleasure.

            When she opened her eyes he was still watching her, and when he spoke his voice was thick with lust.

            "You look so beautiful when you do that."

            She smiled, too heavy with pleasure to be embarrassed.  After all, he still had most of his fingers inside her.

            He withdrew them slowly, gently, and then licked each one as Buffy watched.  And then he pulled her down to him and kissed her, and she tasted herself on him and felt herself get impossibly wetter at the thought.  She was tasting herself, no one else, he wasn't ever going to taste of anyone else.  Just him and her, and their mixed pleasure.

            She sighed and wriggled comfortably against him, and Spike's face sharpened.  She realised with a smile that he was hard again, had been for some time, and it was probably getting uncomfortable.

            Well, she could help him with that.

            But even as she moved to take him inside her, he stopped her, and said, "Turn around."

            "We did this," Buffy told him.

            "No, we didn't," he said.  "Trust me.  We haven't done this."

            Intrigued, hoping it wasn't going to be too exhausting, Buffy did as she was told, and when she was facing the foot of the bed, lowered herself to take Spike inside her.

            She exhaled as she felt him filling her.  So it had been a day and a half since she'd felt it.  An _hour_ and a half was too long.

            She moved around a bit, making herself comfortable, getting him all the way in, wishing she could see his face and wondering why he'd positioned her like this.  Sure, she had a nice back, but did he really want to look at it that much while he was inside her?  Unless he didn't want to look at her face at all.  In a sleep-deprived jealous panic, it took Buffy about half a second to convince herself that he was pretending she was someone else.  Who?  Drusilla?  Surely-

            His hand on her hip tugged her away from her morbid fantasy.  "Hey.  You still with me?"

            "Why are we doing it like this?" Buffy said, and felt him laugh, his body rocking deliciously.

            "Lean back."

            "What?"

            "Lean back.  Try to stay to the left.  That's it, pet."

            Her back was much more slender than his, so she managed to lie back against his chest without touching his injured shoulder, and turn her head to kiss him.  This was better.  Closer.  Nicer.

            His hand trailed down to stroke her breasts, and he started moving his hips slowly.  Hardly at all.  Buffy found it hard to move without losing her balance, but she found she didn't really need to.  Spike was moving at such a delicious angle inside her, pulsing hot and hard against her sweet spot, that she was soon slick with sweat and gasping again.

            He slipped his hand down to stroke her clitoris, her sensitive folds, her inner thighs, caressing the place where they were joined, all the while kissing her sweetly as he pulsed inside her.

            They came together, and it was almost leisurely up into that point.  Then Buffy clamped down on him, and he closed his eyes and said, "_Yes_," and angled his hips to thrust hard into her, stroking her as he did, and Buffy slipped her own hand down there and held her fingers against the base of his shaft as he slid in and out, and he groaned in her ear and moved harder, the bed creaking and groaning as they slid and bounced, Buffy very nearly falling off but holding on tight with her legs and her hand, which dug into his neck.

            They came together with a mutual cry, and Buffy turned her head and pressed her lips to Spike's.

            He tasted her sweet mouth, felt her move on him so she could turn over and curl up against him and kiss him properly, holding him tight, and if she hadn't been kissing him so hard he'd have told her, "I love you."

            But he had no space to breathe, let alone speak, and by the time she came up for air, he'd come to his senses.

            He couldn't tell her that.  What, was he insane?  It was just an impulse.

            An impulse he'd never felt before.

            Still, that didn't mean it was true.

            Did it?

            Buffy curled against him, nuzzling into his neck.  She was warm and soft under his arm, she smelled good and felt even better and, although he couldn't see a whole lot of her, he knew just how great she looked.

            But he wasn't in love with her.  That would just be crazy.  Right?

            Right.

                Oh, bollocks.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

            "Hey, Will!"  Xander leapt up and rushed over to hug his friend as she hovered in the doorway, looking uncertain.  Xander had been sitting talking earnestly with Giles and Anya and from the way the blonde was looking at him it was clear to Willow what they were talking about.

            Xander wanted to marry Anya.

            Willow would be alone.

            She hugged him back and let him lead her over to a comfortable chair, as if she was an invalid.  She had a few very minor burns, but it had been her white cotton shift that took most of the damage.  It wasn't as bad as last time when the fire had actually burnt her.  Tara was slightly worse off - the fire had been higher on her side and her arms and legs were burnt a bit.  Willow had wanted to go and see her but Cordelia had advised against it.

            "She's sleeping, and she needs lots of rest.  Why don't you go and see Mr. Giles?  He was worried about you."

            So Willow had dressed and gone downstairs, trying to figure out exactly what had happened back there with her and Tara.  Since they'd been overheard talking about Willow's previous accusations of witchcraft, the villagers had realised she didn't go to church and she'd tried to explain that she wasn't Christian, but they'd got that far and proclaimed her a witch.  Especially since they'd seen her kissing Tara, who was an odd girl anyway, surely a witch also, and they must both be burnt.

            They'd been put in separate cells, and the next Willow had seen of Tara was when they were led out to the pyre.  On the ride to Angel's Willow had shared a horse with Xander and Tara with Giles, and they'd been taken to different rooms and Willow had spent the whole night and a good portion of the morning trying to figure out exactly what the hell was happening.

            She'd kissed another woman.  Willow hadn't even ever kissed a man before.  She knew Xander had occasionally caught the eye of a pretty lady, but Willow had never been interested before.  Why on earth was she now?

            What would Xander think?

            "How are you feeling?" Giles asked.

            "Oh, I think I'm okay.  Bit tired.  Smoky."

            "You should be resting."

            "No, that was driving me crazy.  I wanted to say thank you, for trying to rescue me.  I mean, for rescuing me.  I mean..."

            "It was really Buffy and Spike who did the rescuing," Anya said.  "Giles and Xander just got in the way."

            "Yes, thank you, Anya," Giles said, and she beamed at him.  "Have you seen Tara?"

            Willow blushed.  "Um, no, not since..."

            There was a silence.

            "It's okay, Will," Xander said, touching her hand.  "We talked about it and, well, it's a bit weird, but, well, you're sort of not very normal anyway and..."

            "You don't mind?" Willow asked in amazement.

            "Actually, I think it's sort of-" Xander caught Anya's eye and stopped.  "If it makes you happy," he finished lamely.  "But hey, listen, on a more conventional note, how would you like to hear some good news?"

            Willow nodded and smiled.  Suddenly she felt deliriously happy.

            "We're engaged!" Anya held up Xander's hand and waved it.  "I don't have a ring yet because he only asked about half an hour ago, but as soon as he's stopped worrying about you and Buffy then he'll take me and get one, won't you, Xander?"

            "Buffy?" Willow said.  "I mean - that's great, I'm so happy for you, but - Buffy?  Why are you worried about her?"

            Xander and Giles looked at each other.  "She didn't follow us here," Giles said.

            "Probably she and William just stopped off somewhere," Xander said.

            "To have lots of sex," Anya nodded, and they all winced.

            "Or to sleep," Xander offered, weakly.

            "But - but the last I saw, the fire was spreading," Willow said, her euphoria fading fast.  "What if they got caught?"

            "I'm sure they'll be fine," Giles said, but he didn't sound too convinced.

            "Buffy'll be fine," Xander said.  "She seems to be able to take care of herself pretty well."

            "But what about William?"

            "He's a highwayman, Will," Xander said.  "He tried to rob us.  He could have killed us."

            "But he didn't," Willow said.  "He didn't.  None of the times he escaped he hurt anyone.  He was nice to me and Tara when he tied us up.  He knows Shakespeare," she added, visibly upset.

            "He probably stole a book from someone," Giles said in despair.  "He's very good at taking care of himself too, Willow.  I'm sure he'll be fine too."

            "And he'll be taking care of Buffy," Anya added.  They all looked at her.  "Don't give me those patronising 'Anya's talking crazy again' looks.  He will.  He's the crazy one - he's mad about her.  Don't tell me you couldn't see it?"

            Giles looked distressed.  Xander, even though he'd pretty much figured it out, looked nauseated.  Anya rolled her eyes at them both.

            Willow gave them a smile, feeling better.  "I'm sure he'll be taking care of her," she said.

            "Spike, I'm fine," Buffy said.  "See me?  Completely fine.  I am the epitome of fineness."

            He poked the loose bandage on her arm and she flinched.

            "Yes, I can see that.  Let me look at it."

            "It hardly hurts."

            "I want to see."

            They glared at each other, but Spike looked the stubbornest, so Buffy gave in and peeled the bandage off.  It did hurt quite a bit.  She didn't remember where it had come from - she'd ducked a lot of swords while she was trying to escape.  Maybe she hadn't ducked far enough.

            Spike was sitting up, leaning against the headboard, looking very heroic with his bandaged shoulder and scarred eyebrow and his cheekbones and his lips and his... Buffy shook herself, and held out her arm to him as she sat crosslegged on the side of the bed.  He took it and peered at the cut.

            "That might need stitches, love."

            "No, it won't."

            "Yes, it will.  And a cleaner bandage than this.  What if you've already infected it?  You could get gangrene," his fingers tightened on her flesh, "a fever, you could die."

            He was staring at the cut, which looked like nothing to Buffy, but his expression was fierce, and she realised he was trying hard not to cry.

            "I'm not going to get a fever," she said gently.  "I feel fine.  And it's a clean cut, see?"

            "You need stitches," Spike said stubbornly, not looking at her, and she recognised his tone.  The same anger and fear she'd had in her voice when she'd yelled at him to wake up last night.  Anger that he'd got so hurt and fear that it could be very bad.  That it could kill him.  That she'd lose him.

            She couldn't bear to lose him.

            She gave him a smile, because she understood, then gently prised her arm from his grip.

            "All right.  Let me go downstairs and get some clean water, and maybe see if I can find some food."

            He let her go, reluctantly, and she kissed his forehead and pulled her clothes on, tying her hair back and pulling her hat down low over her face.  She slipped his leather coat on, loving the heavy settle of the leather on her shoulders, the soft silk of the animal skin, the scent of smoke and sweat and alcohol that was Spike.

            She turned at the door, and he was watching her.

            "It worries me slightly that I still find you attractive when you look like a boy," he said, and she laughed.

            "Maybe this is the problem Willow and Tara have," she said, and went downstairs.  Now she'd had time to think about it, she realised she'd overreacted when she'd heard about Willow and Tara's Sapphic tendencies.  Willow was an odd girl anyway, but she had a good heart.  And didn't the Bible say, 'Judge not, lest ye be judged'?  She had robbed people for years, and now she was hiding out with a known highwayman.  Giving her body to a man who was a virtual stranger.  No, she couldn't judge Willow.  Love was a fine thing, wherever it came from and wherever it went to.

            With this thought in her mind, Buffy flirted with the barmaid for some clean, hot water and a couple of bowls of stew.  And while she was there she borrowed a pen and some paper and wrote a quick note to Angel to let Giles and everyone know she and Spike were all right.  She paid a man in the village to take it to Sunnydale House and only realised afterwards that there was a possibility Giles and the girls hadn't got there.  And then she dismissed it.  She didn't need to worry about that now.  She'd go mad if she did.

            She took the food and some thick beer upstairs and went back for the water.  They ate first, and then Spike poured whisky into the cut on Buffy's arm and sterilised the needle and thread.

            "See, when I sewed you up, you were unconscious," Buffy said, her heart beating faster.

            "Afraid of a little needle, Slayer?"

            She looked right at him.  "Yes.  Would you like me to stick a needle in your flesh while you're wide awake?"

            "I could handle it," Spike said offhandedly.

            Buffy poked his shoulder, and he sucked in a breath.

            "See?" she said smugly.

            He glared at her, then picked up the needle.  "Come here," he said, getting her to sit facing him, and when she was closer, leaned forward and kissed her.

            "I'll try not to hurt you," he whispered.  "Not any more than I have to."

            Touched, she gave him a smile, stroking his cheek.  "I know.  I trust you."

            It was probably the first time anyone had said those words to Spike, and it took him a second to recover.

            _I love you_, he thought, and this time he knew it was true.  He kissed her again, briefly, for courage, then started to sew the cut on her arm.

            Buffy figured it probably wouldn't hurt too much, but after half a dozen stitches there were tears rolling down her face.  By the time Spike had finished, her fingers, which had been resting on the mattress, had dug a hole through the sheet.

            He set down the needle and wiped away the blood with a clean cloth.  Then he wiped her face and Buffy, who'd tried to keep her tears turned away, looked up, slightly ashamed she'd been caught crying over a few stitches.

            Spike's eyes were so full of compassion she nearly started crying again.  He pulled back the bandage holding his arm against his chest, and showed her a faded scar on his wrist.

            "Sword practice when I was an ensign," he said.  "Needed thirteen stitches.  I howled like a baby."

            Buffy gave a bit of a smile at the thought of him sobbing so hard, and he smiled back, reaching for some clean cloth to bandage her arm properly.  He kissed her skin, then he kissed her mouth, and she held onto him, grateful and relieved and... and... and oddly sad.

            She didn't know why.  He was going to be fine: his enthusiastic sexual performance had convinced her of that - and he was being pretty nice to her.  Maybe that was the problem.  The compassion.  The concern.  The sweetness of his kiss.

            She didn't want to lose him.

            Buffy kissed him a little harder, trying to remember him completely, because she knew she'd have to-

            Have to what, exactly?  Leave him again?  But why?  Now she had her memory back she remembered that she'd been a pretty rebellious kid in the first place.  Giles had probably been more shocked by her compliance, than he would if she announced she was running off with a highwayman.

            Why shouldn't she?

            They'd make a great team.  Buffy remembered she'd been a damn good highway robber.  She'd worked well with Angel and with Faith.  And judging by how well they got along in... _other_ _areas_... Buffy was fairly sure she and Spike would get along famously-

            Or infamously-

            -in a professional sense.  She suddenly broke the kiss and smiled at him and he paused, taken aback by how lit up she was.

            Glowing.  Wow.

            "You recovered pretty quickly," he said, for want of anything else.

            "Magic kisses," she said, still grinning daftly.

            "Dare I ask what makes you so happy?"

            _You_.

            "I feel like celebrating," she told him.

            "Celebrating what?"

            _Us_.

            "Your recovery."

            "I'm not exactly recovered yet-" Spike began, but then she pulled the sheet away from him and started kissing down his stomach.  "But a bit of future celebrating - _Jesus_, Buffy!"

            She looked up and gave him an innocent look.  "Oh, I'm sorry... didn't you like that?"

            "Uh..." He tried to get his brain back so he could answer her.  "I'm not sure.  Why don't you try it again?"

            "She says William has been injured and she doesn't want to risk moving him," Giles said, looking up from Buffy's letter.

            "How badly?" Dawn asked nervously.

            "She doesn't say.  And there's no indication of their whereabouts."

            "Who delivered it?"

            Giles looked exasperated.  "Mute boy."

            "I could follow him back?" Angel suggested, and Giles nodded.

            "Good idea."

            Angel went to get his coat as Giles wrote a quick reply, assuring Buffy that they were all fine, and the boy took it silently, went out to his horse, and was miles away before Angel had even got a saddle ready.

            Spike wasn't sure what had come over Buffy, but he didn't care: he'd never seen her so happy.  She touched him almost constantly, whether awake or sleeping, even if she was just curled up by his side, telling him about the plantation in Virginia or her family or the coaches she'd robbed.

            She fell asleep, exhausted, as the sky got darker, and Spike gently eased her away from him and had a go at standing up.  There.  Not so bad.  Didn't seem like he was going to fall over, or die or anything.  He pulled his clothes on, with difficulty, abandoning his boots and his coat, pulling Buffy's large cloak around his shoulders to hide the arm strapped to his chest.  He pulled his hat down low and went down the stairs, locking Buffy in, to see where the hell they were.

            The barmaid looked very pleased to see him and asked if he wanted any female company for the night.

            "But I-" Spike began, and realised that they all thought Buffy was a boy.  "Er, no, but thanks anyway.  Still sleeping off the effects of last night.  Wouldn't be much good to you, love."

            She looked disappointed, and about to suggest something else, when he said, "Got any food?  Me and the boy are starving."

            "He came down for some earlier," she said, wandering into a large and scruffy kitchen.  "Bit scrawny, ain't he?"

            Spike, busy remembering how he and Buffy had worked off their food, gave her a vague smile.  "And something to drink," he said.  "In a bottle, so's I can hide it from the boy," he gave the barmaid a wink, and she grinned back at him, displaying a mouth full of brown teeth.  He tried not to recoil, and instead asked for some bread and cheese.  He'd been about to ask for meat, too, but saw the state of kitchen and decided not to risk it.

            When he went back up Buffy was sitting up in bed, looking alarmed.  As he opened the door she aimed the pistol at him, then relaxed.

            "Where have you been?  I was worried, and - and you're not supposed to be out of bed!  Spike, you lost a lot of blood, and you're still all weak, and..."

            She was dragging him over to the bed, all warm and soft and naked, and he happily allowed her to do it.

            "I went for some food," he said.  "And I got you something, too."

            "What?" she asked suspiciously.

            He withdrew a folded bit of paper from inside the cloak and gave it her as he sat down beside her on the bed.  "Came while I was chatting up the barmaid."

            "That hag with the teeth?  What were you doing-"

            He grinned and kissed her pouty lip.  "Getting grub, love.  Mmm, I could kiss that lip all day..."

            He kissed her again, and again, slipping his arm about her and taking her mouth completely.  She started to kiss him back, but then pushed him away and said, "I want to read my letter.  Kissing later."

            Spike pouted.

            "You can't wait five minutes?"

            "No."  He shoved the sheet away from her body and caressed her breasts.  "But this'll do.  You read.  Fast."

            She rolled her eyes but didn't stop him.  Giles's note was short, telling her that he, Anya and Xander had got Dawn, Tara and Willow safely to Angel's, and that none of them were badly hurt.  Buffy frowned at the 'badly', but she remembered how practical Cordelia had been, and knew that any injuries they had would be taken care of.

            He wanted to know where they were, and said Angel was following their messenger back to the inn, and when she read that she stilled Spike's roving hand and read it again, out loud.

            He froze.

            "He's coming here?"

            "Well, if the letter got in half an hour ago, then he's already here," Buffy said.  "Shit."  She started grabbing clothes, and was out the door in seconds, leaving a rather confused Spike sitting there on the bed.

            "She rushes off to see him," he said.  "Bloody Angel."

            He picked up his boots and tried to get them on, but it was impossible with only one hand and a raging temper.  So she'd shag him into oblivion, and then when her old boyfriend turned up she'd run off to see him.  Okay, so he'd be the first familiar face she'd seen since she got her memory back, but still...

            But still, he didn't want her running off to see anyone.  She was his now.  Didn't she know that?

            He'd just given up on trying to fasten his boots and was throwing them across the room when Buffy came back in.  She looked slightly startled, especially when she saw his mardy expression.

            "Well?" Spike asked moodily.  "Peaches down there?"

            "No," she said.  "I talked to the boy - he said - well, he didn't say anything, but when I asked if anyone followed him he shook his head.  Not that you'd know with Angel, but I checked around.  No one's seen him."

            Slightly mollified, Spike stood up to collect his boots.  "Will you give me a hand, love?"

            "Why, where are you going?"

            Away from Angel.

            "I figure it's only a matter of time before the witch-burners come after us," he said, and watched the fear come over her face.  "We should move on."

            "But you're not-"

            "I'll be fine," Spike said, and he was almost sure it was the truth.

  


_Well, that's the first update for the New Year… (have a great 2004, dear readers, both of you).  Almost finished with this one now!  Well, actually, I am finished, but you… you'll have to wait.  (Picture me cackling evilly)_


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

            They spent a week slowly travelling from place to place, not wanting to be found by anyone.  Buffy couldn't remember being happier: despite his injury Spike was cheerfully lusty and several times he stopped the horse and pulled her off and made love to her by the road, because he just couldn't wait to get to the next inn.  And neither could she.

            Twice Buffy robbed coaches to get enough money for new clothes, food and somewhere to stay.  It occurred to her to steal a horse too, but she rather liked riding with Spike, and he certainly didn't seem to have any objections.

            At the end of the week Spike reluctantly suggested they go to Angel's.  His excuse was that he didn't want Dawn to go off and get married without him, but when he casually said, "And I suppose you'll be wanting to see if the girls are okay," she knew he was worried about them too.

            Her heart swelled with love.

            And it was love.  She'd never loved Riley and she'd known that, but he'd loved her, and oddly, that had seemed enough.  She'd had a crush on Angel - a reciprocated crush, but a crush nonetheless.  At the time she'd been sure it was love, but now she knew.  Love was wanting to be with someone even when he annoyed the hell out of you, even when you knew you had no future with him.  Wanting him so desperately your skin itched.  Knowing that if he was taken away from you, you'd burn up and turn to ashes, because-

            "Stupid bloody ponce," Spike muttered in front of her, and she shook herself.

            "What?"

            He nodded at the house just coming into view.  "Angel.  Look at that place.  Five thousand rooms for him and his bint."

            "Don't call Darla that to her face."

            "Why?  Never hurt before."

            She smiled and rested her head on his good shoulder.  She'd tell him, she decided.  When they'd got to Angel's and seen everybody and talked about everything and they were alone again.  Then she'd tell him.  Her skin twitched with nerves.  She wasn't afraid, exactly, because she was pretty sure he felt the same, but she was excited.  This was the man she was going to spend forever with.

            There was a horse trotting out of the stables, and its rider looked up when it saw Buffy and Spike ambling over the fields on their stolen horse.

            "Spike?"

            It was Dawn.  She kicked her horse into a gallop, rushing towards them, and Spike muttered, "Silly little chit."  But he didn't sound too annoyed.

            "Where the hell have you been?" Dawn demanded when she reined in a few feet away.

            "It's nice to see you too," Buffy murmured.

            "Buffy?"  The girl's face turned to a smile.  "I didn't see you there.  I thought - you're both here!  That's great.  Come on.  I think Giles is in the library with Willow, I don't know where the others are..."

            They followed her into the house, gathering people as they went.  Tara was showing Darla and Cordelia a hairstyle in the parlour; Anya was talking about weddings to Xander in the drawing room.  Angel came out of his office and they all met up in the library, where Willow was fetching down a book and Giles was reading at the big table.

            Buffy stopped, and looked at the man she'd known since she was a child.  She was so happy to see him she ran in and threw her arms around him, nearly knocking him over.

            "You know, I might get jealous at that," Spike said, taking a half-smoked cigarette from behind his ear and sticking it between his teeth to light it.

            "What happened to you?" Willow asked.

            "Got shot," he said, a touch proudly, and Buffy rolled her eyes.

            "Willow!  How are you?  And Tara?  You're not hurt?"

            Tara shook her head shyly and Willow said, "Nothing that won't heal.  Where have you been?  We were trying to find you..."

            "Lying low," Buffy said easily.  "But listen, I'm just so tired, we've been riding all-"

            "Before you go," Giles said, and Buffy turned.  Such small words.  Meaningless, really.  She'd no idea what was coming.

            He handed her the letter he'd been reading, explaining, "It came this morning.  From Virginia."

            Surprised, Buffy took it.

            "Spike," Dawn tugged at his sleeve.  "Come look at the horse I bought."

            "Bought?" he said, distracted.  "With what?"

            "That necklace you stole last week."

            "Who've you been buying horses from?"

            "Me," Angel said, and his expression said Dawn was a hard bargainer.

            Spike grinned, proud of his girl.  "I'll be outside, Buffy-?"

            She nodded vaguely, not looking up.  "I'll see you later."

            She sat down at the table to read the rest of the letter.  The others faded away: soon it was just her, Willow and Giles left at the big table.  They exchanged worried glances as Buffy read.

            Then she started laughing.

            "All right, this is a joke, yes?"

            "Erm, no," Giles frowned at Willow.  "It's not."

            "But it says here - they've issued a warrant for the arrest of one William Darling, also known as William the Bloody," she waved her hand to show she knew all this, and added in an incredulous tone, "also known as the Slayer?"

            They both nodded.

            "But that's insane!  He's not the Slayer!"

            "How do you know?" Willow asked.

            "Because I'm the - because I know," Buffy finished lamely, aware that neither of them knew who she was.  "He's not.  He's never been to Virginia!"

            "Actually, he has," Darla said, and they all jumped.  None of them had noticed her lurking in the shadows.

            "He has?"

            "It's where we met," she said, coming forward.  "After Angel had left you, Buffy, he teamed up with Spike.  And then Spike left with some silly blonde twit - Harmony, I think her name was.  And Angel asked me if I'd like to be his partner.  We sort of migrated up here.  Got a house when we found somewhere we liked."

            Buffy noticed she said 'got', not 'bought', but she didn't really care.

            "Spike was in Virginia?"

            "Before all that with your fiancée," Darla said.  "He'd left well before all that started.  There was a lawman... Snyder?  They crossed paths and Snyder wouldn't give up.  I guess he pinned the Slayer things on Spike just to give himself an excuse."

            Buffy stared at the letter.  It was from her foreman, a tall dignified man called Wood who'd been taught to read and write by her mother.  His writing was careful and his spelling appalling, but there was no mistaking what he meant.

            'Theirs posters awl ova town fer him miss.  The hole of Virginny wants his blood.  Lookes like it mite be safe fer you ter come home.'

            He'd known, of course.  All the servants had known.  They'd quietly hidden Faith, then buried her when she died.  Wood had been the one to suggest Buffy and Joyce made a break for it at Riley's funeral.

            "Wait, how did he know I was here?"

            "Angel's letter," Darla said.  "He'd already sent one to your mother, remember, before we knew she was dead.  I guess this Wood of yours found someone to deliver it pretty quick."

            "People did what he said," Buffy murmured vaguely.  She looked at the poster Wood had enclosed.  There was a very bad woodcut of someone who might be supposed to look a little bit like Spike: he had prominent cheekbones and a scar through one eyebrow, although she noticed it was the wrong one.  But he was far uglier than her Spike.  Whoever had made this picture had obviously never seen him.

            "Right," she said.  "So we just keep him away from Virginia, right?"

            "Whatever you do, don't tell him Snyder's after him," Darla said.  "Those two hate each other's blood.  And," she pointed to a bit of the letter where Wood had massacred the spelling of 'militia', "he's got a lot of men behind him."

            "There were a lot of men in Giles's village," Willow said.  "He escaped them."

            "After setting a village on fire and getting shot," Buffy said.  "No.  You're right.  We have to keep him out of Virginia."

            "It's four hundred miles away," Willow said.  "That shouldn't be hard."

            "...Anyway, the letter said Buffy's estate was in a really bad state," Dawn said, brushing the mane of her beautiful new horse, "so she should go right home."

            "Home to Virginia?" Spike said.  "It's kind of a long way..."

            "I'm sure she wouldn't object to you going with her," Dawn said, and looked at him sideways.  "I mean, you two are pretty... cosy..."

            "That's enough," Spike said.

            "Oh come on.  You helped her save her friends, she saved your life, and besides, I've _heard_ you two, remember?"

            She thought she almost saw him blush.

            "Are you going to marry her?" she asked uncertainly.

            "Marry her?  Are you mad?"

            "Don't you love her?"

            "Of course I bloody do," Spike sighed, and the admission didn't surprise him.  "But she's... Well, I watched her take two coaches.  She's way out of my league, Dawn, although if that gets out I'll have to kill you.  She's the Slayer.  The last thing I heard when I left the poof to his bint was, 'This is Slayer territory.  Not worth staying'."

            "So, you're pretty good too," Dawn looked up at him with a hint of admiration.  "Maybe you could learn from her."  He glared at her, and she amended, "Well, I mean, maybe you could be a team.  Like you used to work with Angel."

            "He told you that?"

            "Yeah, he told me.  And he told me all about Buffy.  Does she have her memory back yet?"

            "Yes," Spike said.  "And she remembers a whole lot of trouble in Virginia."

            "So... Maybe she shouldn't go back?"

            "No, she'll go," Spike sighed.  "I guess I'll just have to go too.  Keep her out of trouble."

            Dawn said nothing, but she was smiling.

            Buffy listened to Spike tell her all about his time in Virginia, and wasn't it odd that their paths had never crossed, and he'd like to meet this Wood and see her house and where she'd made her first robbery, and weren't they going to have a fantastic time together?  Oh and by the way, he loved her.

            That was how he said it.  They made love - they didn't have sex, they made love, and it was amazing - and as he pulled her sleepily against him afterwoods, he said in her ear, "By the way, Summers, I love you."

            Buffy fell asleep with tears soaking into her pillow.

            The thing was that she couldn't just up and leave him like before.  It was different now.

            He'd find her.

            And if he found her, he'd be killed.

            She'd read the rest of Wood's letter, explaining how, with no one there to stop them, the servants were just leaving.  There were only a few left now, slaves bought by her father, people loyal to her family.  And they were starving.  There weren't enough of them to bring in any kind of crop, and when Wood had tried to trade a little of it, he'd been ignored.  People didn't trade with darkies, he said, and he was right.

            Buffy knew she had to go back.  There were people there depending on her.  She knew how to run the place - she'd been more interested in robbing coaches, but she'd paid attention to what her mother did all day.  One day, Buffy knew she'd inherit the place.

            And now she had.  And it needed her.  And she had to choose: her home and her family - because Wood and the others were her family - or Spike.

            And if that was her choice then there was no choice.  He'd find another woman.  It's kill her to think of it, but he'd live without her.  The world was full of women.  He'd be all right.  He'd have Dawn to scold and annoy, and women falling at his feet for a casual shag.

            She had to leave him.  It was simple.

            She woke when it was early, having slept for about an hour.  During the night she'd been making plans, and it bloody hurt, but now she had to see them through.  She'd looked at it all over, and this was the only thing she could ever see working.

            If it worked at all.  She half hoped it wouldn't.

            "Where's Angel?" she asked Cordelia in the entrance hall.

            "He rode out with Darla about ten minutes ago," she said.  "Boy, everyone sure is up early today."

            "I have a lot to do," Buffy said, and went out to the stableyard.  She saddled up a chestnut gelding and rode off towards the village, where she'd been told Angel and Darla were.  And, sure enough, when she rode into the square there they were, a man bound with ropes suspended between the two horses.

            He looked familiar.

            "Hey, I know you," Buffy said, frowning.

            "Bad luck for you," Darla said.

            "Why have you got him tied up?" Buffy asked, trying to remember where she'd seen him before.  So many memories had flooded back over the last week, it was tough trying to keep track of them all.

            "He's the man who raped Drusilla," Angel said, and Buffy stared.  The man glared at her, and she said slowly, "I _know_ you."

            "Godless devil-worshipper," he spat.

            "Yep, I definitely know you.  He's the guy who tried to have Willow and Tara burnt."

            "They were-" the judge began, but Darla cracked her whip at him, and he shut up.

            "He's not a nice chap," Angel said.  "We've run afoul of him a couple of times.  Lucky for us though, he likes bribes."

            "What kind of bribe is it going to take to cover up his rape and murder of Dru and her family?" Buffy asked.

            "I'm thinking a couple of pounds," Angel said, and lifted his pistol.  He fired, and the judge slumped to the ground.  "Of lead," he added, grinning, and let go of his end of the rope.  Darla tugged on her end, and dragged the dead man away, followed by a crowd of fascinated villagers.

            "How did you know?" Buffy asked, as Angel helped her up behind him.

            "He turned up this morning looking for money.  I'd had enough of him anyway," Angel said, "but then Dru came downstairs and started screaming, and he ran away... and we got the story from her."

            "I didn't hear any screaming," Buffy said.

            "You never do.  You and Spike."

            There was a pause.  Angel turned his horse back to the house and Buffy absently curved an arm around his waist.

            "Not that I'm complaining, but don't let our William see you do that," Angel said.

            "What?"

            "He gets very jealous over his women."

            "Is that what I am?  His woman?"  Buffy snuggled a bit closer.  "I'm no one's woman."

            "Well, you two seemed pretty..."

            "Cosy?" Buffy said in disgust.

            "You hardly stop touching him."

            "Well, he is very nicely shaped," Buffy said dispassionately.  "And great in bed.  Not as good as you, though," she let her hand slip down to his crotch, and Angel nearly fell off the horse.

            "What are you doing?"

            "Come on, Angel.  Don't you want to play?"

            "But - I thought you were with Spike!"

            "I'm bored with him," Buffy said in his ear.  "I want to play with you."

            "He loves you," Angel said, and Buffy nearly screamed.

            "So he says.  You know, he was fun until he started saying that... You don't love me, do you, Angel?"

            "Well, I-" Angel sounded flustered.

            "Because you know, that's what put me off last time.  The others never told me they loved me."

            "What others?"

            "The other men I had."  She laughed.  "You didn't think you were the only one, sweetie?"

            Angel went very still.

            "Oh, you did?  That's adorable.  And incredibly stupid."

            Angel stopped the horse and slid off.  "I think we need to-"

            Buffy winked at him.  "See you later," she said, hitching forwards into the saddle and riding off, leaving Angel yelling after her.

            Her heart was thumping as she galloped away.  That had not felt good.  Touching Angel only reminded her how much she'd rather be touching Spike.  Hurting Angel reminded her how much she didn't want to hurt Spike.

            But she had to.  She'd started now.  She couldn't stop.

            She left the horse for someone else to take care of, and strode into the house.  "Doyle," she said, catching sight of him, "I'll need to borrow a couple of horses.  I'm leaving today."

            "Alone?"

            "Well, I'm going to see if Giles will come with me," Buffy said.  "That's where the 'couple' comes in."

            She found Giles eating breakfast with Xander and the girls.  "I'm leaving today," she announced.  "I've been thinking about what Wood said in that letter and I need to go home."

            Anya kicked Xander.  "Ask her," she said.

            "I'm going to!"

            "Ask me what?" Buffy said, distracted.

            "Well, we were kind of wondering... Since Giles's house and Anya's store got sort of totally ruined in the fire-"

            "Oh no!"

            "Well, we were thinking.  As you're going down to Virginia, and you have this big house and everything, and in need of help..."

            "Xander can mend things," Anya piped up.  "And I'm _very_ good with money."

            "You want to come with me?"

            They nodded.

            "Of course you can," she smiled.  "I'd be happy to have you."

            They grinned in relief.

            "What about you, Giles?" Buffy asked.  "Do you want to come with me?"

            He shook his head.  "I think you've shown me you can stand on your own feet," he said, smiling slightly sadly, and on impulse she put her arms around him.  "I'm going to Boston.  I've a friend there who's repeatedly offered me a teaching position and I think I'll take him up on it.  And I'll be taking the girls with me, too."

            "Probably we won't be allowed to study properly," Willow said, "but if you put on an apron and carry a teapot you can get into any library in the world."

            Buffy laughed.  "I'm happy for you," she said, and meant it.  "Xander, Anya, can you be ready to leave after breakfast?"

            "It's not like we have a lot to pack," Xander said.

            "I'll meet you in the stableyard in-"  she broke off, distracted by a loud, annoyed voice from the lobby.

            "She can take whatever the hell she likes," Angel snarled, and then Doyle came into the breakfast room and said, "No problem with the horses."

            "Wow, something rattled him," Xander said.

            "Erm, yes.  Irishmen," Buffy rolled her eyes.  "Look, I'll meet you in half an hour.  There's something I, er, have to do..."

            When she closed the door and saw Spike still fast asleep, sprawled bonelessly across the bed she'd shared with him, she almost changed her mind.  With the bandage on his shoulder he looked vulnerable and she couldn't bear to hurt him.

            But she'd started it now.  She couldn't go back.

            She started packing up the clothes and trinkets she'd acquired during her week with him.  It wasn't much, but it was enough to fill a saddlebag.

            She stopped as she came to a pink ribbon with a silk rose sew on it.  She paused, then tied it around her neck.  Spike had bought it for her at a fair they'd come to.  She was dressed as a boy, but she'd put it on under her stock and loved it, because he'd got it for her.  She had far more valuable things in her possession: ruby necklaces and gold watches and sapphire ear bobs; but she loved this silly, pretty thing, because he'd given it to her.

            Her eyes stung, but she shook her head and told herself not to be so soft.  That would get her nowhere.

            She untied the ribbon choker and stuffed it in the bottom of her bag.  Maybe Anya would like it.

            She fastened the buckle on her saddlebag, and the clink woke Spike.  He stirred, nuzzled the pillow and clutched at the sheets, frowning, then he rolled over and opened his eyes to see where Buffy'd gone.

            He saw her fastening the bag, and said sleepily, "Buffy?"

            Don't, she told herself.  Don't fall.  Don't give in.  You have to do this.

            If he follows you, they'll kill him.

            "Hey," she said, slinging the bag over her shoulder.  "You slept long enough."

            "You wore me out."  He stretched, looking like a big sensual cat, and Buffy flinched with desire.  "You going somewhere, pet?"

            "Yes," she said.  "Home."

            "Your plantation?  Now?"

            She nodded.  "It's best.  The place is in trouble, so..."

            He paused, looking a little confused, a little hurt.  He sat up in bed, and she watched his stomach muscles flexing and wanted to lick them.

            "Don't I get to come with you?"

            "Come with me?"  Buffy forced a look of light puzzlement.  "Why would you do that?"

            A look of panic flared across his face.  "Um, because I love you.  Did you miss that part?"

            She laughed, and it came surprisingly easy.  Buffy supposed it was all those months laughing at Riley's jokes.  "No, and it was very sweet of you to say so," she said.  "You were great.  Thanks."

            He flinched visibly at that.  "Goodbye and thank you?  Is this a joke?"

            If it is, it's not bloody funny, Buffy thought.  "No," she said.  "Look, you were fun and all, but did you really think I was going to take you with me?  Happily ever on my plantation in the sun?"

            Spike's guarded expression said that yes, that was what he'd thought.

            "Oh, Spike.  If you only knew how many men have thought that..."

            "I do know," he said stiffly.  "Angel and your Lieutenant Lousy."

            Buffy laughed.

            "You said there had-"

            "I said there had been the two of them, yes," Buffy said.  "I never said it was only the two of them."  She hoped she hadn't said that.  But then again, what did one more little lie matter?  "Spike, listen.  You were great fun.  Really.  You were nice in bed and-"

            That brought him to his feet and he strode, naked and glorious, over to her.  "_Nice_?"

            "Well, sure.  I mean, you didn't do anything wrong, exactly-"

            "I made you _scream_."

            "No, the boredom made me scream.  I was composing recipes in my head most of the time."

            He stared at her, apparently speechless.  Buffy wanted desperately to tell him that when he was touching her the only thing she could possibly think of was him.  Of she could think of anything at all.  He made her mindless with pleasure.

            I have to get out of here, she thought, and made to move away but Spike grabbed her arms and held them tight.

            "Let go of me."

            "You were faking it?"

            "Well, of course I was.  You were-"

            "If you tell me I was fun again-"

            "I won't, because you weren't.  Kind of fun to look at, maybe, but soo intense.  Look, the letting you down gently thing clearly isn't working."

            "Clearly," he said through clenched teeth.  She'd never seen him so angry and for a second or two she was afraid.  But only a second.

            "Did you think you were special?  Did you think I loved you?"

            He was silent, looking down.  Buffy's toes curled and her eyes stung.  God, he looked ruined.

            "Did you think it was forever?  You men never understand.  Angel never did."

            His head snapped up.  "Angel-"

            "-also thought I was madly in love with him.  Spike, I'm not the loving sort of person.  Maybe I was confused for a while because of the memory thing - and really, it was great of you to help me out like you did. Although I have to say: taking advantage of a girl like that is not a nice thing to do."

            "I didn't take advantage.  You let me - you _made_ me-"

            "I didn't make you do anything," Buffy said.  She reached up and touched his short spiky hair.  "You were always so eager.  And I confess, I was a bit too.  Like I said, I couldn't remember what it felt like to be with a man.  To feel his hands on me.  His lips on my skin.  His weight on top of me.  To feel him slide, hard and hot, inside me, moving..." She caught herself.  This was getting her nowhere good.

            "You were just convenient," she patted his cheek.  "You reminded me.  Now it's over."  She gave him a cruel little wink.  "Virginia's full of delicious men who are so much better than-"

            Almost before she knew it, he'd lifted one hand and aimed it at her face, but she ducked it, shocked, and caught his arm, gripping hard.

            "You're lying," he said, struggling against her.  She was strong, but he was stronger, and really angry, too.

            "You're a fool," she hissed.  "You really thought I loved you?  Like we had a future?  Poor little lost Spikey, can't have children, only half a man.  You're pathetic."

            "You're a bitch."

            "It took you this long to notice?  I'm a highwaywoman," Buffy said as contemptuously as she could.  "I don't give a damn about anyone."

            "You-"

            "It's over," Buffy said, and Spike stopped struggling and stared at her, so angry and so damn hurt Buffy nearly cried.  "I'm leaving."

            "You can't," he said tightly.

            "I damn well can."

            Spike's eyes closed, and she saw his lashes glisten with tears.  She bit her own lip and stamped her foot and told herself not to cry.  "I can't lose you again."

            "As far as I remember, you never had me."

            His eyes snapped open.  "I had you, Summers.  I had you every which way."  He started backing her against the wall.  "I had you from behind, I had you outside, I had you in broad daylight by the side of the road.  I had you while your old boyfriend was listening.  _I had you on the back of a horse._  I had you, tight and wet and _screaming_ for me."

            Buffy's breath caught again.  Her bosom was heaving.

            "Let go of me," she said.

            "Why are you doing this to me?" Spike asked, and he sounded broken.

            Because I love you, Buffy thought, and knew she'd never been more miserable in her entire life.

            "Let go," she said, and when he didn't, she reached up to his injured shoulder and dug her fingers in.

            He howled in pain and fell back and she shoved him to the floor, kicked his ribs for good measure, and stepped over him.  She picked up her saddlebag and walked out of the room.

            "Goodbye, William," she said, and closed the door.

            Spike watched her go, his heart breaking, and wondered how the hell he'd got it so wrong.

  


_Okay, just don't kill me yet.  We all know the Spuffiness will prevail…_

_Or will it?_

_(More evil cackling.__  I just lurve torturing you all!)_


	15. Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

            "Are you alright?" Cordelia asked as Buffy ran down the stairs, sniffing furiously.

            "I'm fine.  Just in a hurry."

            "Xander said you were leaving.  What about Spike - he's not even up yet."

            "No," Buffy said.  "He's not coming."

            Cordelia blinked.  "But I thought you two-"

            "Wait, you're leaving?" Dawn said, and Buffy whipped round to see her coming out of the breakfast room.

            "Yes.  It was nice to meet you-"

            "What about my dad?  Is he going to leave without saying goodbye to me, or-"

            "He's staying," Buffy said, and Dawn looked confused.

            "But I thought-"

            "Apparently so did a lot of people," Spike said, appearing at the top of the stairs in only his breeches, the white bandage on his shoulder stained with blood.

            Dawn groaned.  "Put some clothes on - wait, your shoulder!"

            "Healing wounds bleed when you open them up," Spike said, looking right at Buffy.

            "I guess they do."  She tried to look nonchalant.  "Goodbye, Dawn, and good luck with your marriage.  Cordelia, thank you for all your help."

            "But-" they both began.

            Buffy turned and walked out, ignoring Spike who stayed right where he was, scowling horribly.

            Cordelia ran after Buffy, and Dawn turned to her father.  "What was that all about?  What did you do to her?"

            "I didn't do anything."  He sat down on the top step, and leaned against the railing, suddenly exhausted.  His shoulder was bloody killing him.  He shouldn't have taken it out of the sling.

            No, he shouldn't have let Buffy stick her fingers in it.

            He shouldn't have let Buffy do a lot of things.

            "But last night - you said you were going with her.  You must have done _something_."

            "I didn't do anything," Spike snapped.  "She was playing with me.  The whole time.  She was just playing.  Killing time while she got her memory back."

            "Her what?" Dawn said, just as Angel appeared at the end of the corridor.  He saw Spike and frowned in surprise, then he came a few steps further and saw Dawn scowling, and hesitated.

            "What did I miss?"

            "Buffy," Dawn said, and Angel started scowling, too.

            "Oh.  _Her_."

            "She did you too, mate," Spike said, and Angel sat down beside him.

            "Did what?" Dawn demanded, and blushed when they both looked at her.  "Oh.  _Oh_."

            "Bloody bint," Spike said, and she could tell he was trying hard not to cry.  She turned and ran outside, round to the stables, and found Buffy arguing with Cordelia.

            "You broke his heart," Cordelia was saying.

            "That's his fault," Buffy said.

            "You did it on purpose," Dawn said.  "He _loved_ you."

            "Well, that's his problem-"

            "The hell it is," Dawn spat.  "You did it to Angel, too."

            Cordelia glared at Buffy.  "Is this some sort of game to you?"

            "Yes," Buffy said, and looked up as Xander and Anya came clattering round the corner on their horses.  Doyle was leading a third for Buffy and she darted for it, swinging up into the saddle before either of the girls could catch her.  "It's a game.  You can ask Angel."

            She rode away before either of them could say anything else, and Xander and Anya had to ride hell for leather to catch her up.

            When they did, she'd stopped crying and the pinkness around her eyes was easily explained away as the wind stinging her eyes.

            But Xander wasn't fooled.  "What was that back there?"

            Buffy kept her eyes straight ahead.  "Nothing."

            He exchanged a look with Anya.  "You made Dawn cry."

            Buffy's heart wrenched.  "Good.  She's an annoying little brat."

            "But-"

            "I don't want to talk about it," Buffy said, tight-lipped, and Anya looked over at Xander and said, "I'm so glad we're going to live with her."

            Buffy ignored her and rode on.

            It was on the fourth day, when they were not too far from the plantation, that Xander eventually wore her down.  They were in an inn, the last people in the bar, Anya snoring upstairs after the day's long ride and the inn's bad food, and a drink or two had loosened both Buffy's muscles and her tongue.

            Her misery came flooding out.

            "I had to do it," she sobbed on Xander's shoulder.  "I had to make him hate me.  Don't you see?  If he still loved me he'd come after me."

            Xander stared at her.  "That's it?  You were trying to make him hate you?"

            "I can hardly remember what I was saying to him," she sniffed.  "I was telling him anything - I made up other lovers and told him he was no good in bed and that I'd been bored and I'd lied and, and..."

            He patted her shoulder.  "He doesn't know about Snyder?"

            "No.  He couldn't know.  He'd get all foolhardy and brave and follow me and then they'd kill him.  And it's better we're apart than he's dead.  I couldn't bear it if he was dead."

            "Well, no," Xander tried to think of some way to comfort her, but nothing came.

            "And now he really hates me," she sobbed.  "Now he thinks I'm a heartless fake and I just sleep with men for a game.  So he can't have ever loved me, can he, if he thinks that of me?  How can he have ever loved me?"

            How can he not, Xander thought.  He loved Anya, he was sure of that, but he looked at Buffy and saw her strength and her beauty and her compassion and her intelligence - well, okay, maybe that last one was hiding right now - and he knew that Spike had loved her completely.

            And that he was coming after her.

            Or he was a complete fool.

            Days passed darkly, blearily for Spike.  He went home, and he drank.  At some point his daughter showed up with some smooth-talking git of a lawyer and said she was going to marry him.  He only had one hand, Spike noticed through his haze of cheap rum and whisky.

            "Wha' happened to your-" he gestured vaguely, having forgotten the right word.  "With the fingers 'n' stuff."

            "My hand?" The lawyer held up his folded cuff.  "Had a run-in with a highwayman.  Maybe you know him?  Calls himself Angel."

            Spike thought that was hilarious and laughed for several hours, until Dawn asked in faint disgust if he was coming to the ceremony, and the thought of marriage reminded him of love, and love made him think of Buffy, and he was miserable again.

            It was three days until his rum ran out, and when he hollered to Dawn for some more, she stomped in and threw a bucket of very cold water over him.

            "You are a disgusting excuse for a human being," she said.

            "I'm mizzerble.  Leave me 'lone."

            "No.  Sober up or I'll shoot you."

            "So shoot me.  Lemme out of my misery," he slurred, starting to feel a hell of a hangover come on.

            "Oh, for God's sake," Dawn said, and went out to get more water.  But as she passed the front door she saw someone sliding elegantly off a horse, and realised it was Darla.

            "Dawn," the blonde gave her a cool smile.  "Is your father at home?"

            "Barely," Dawn said, and jerked her thumb at his study.  Darla swayed over and pushed open the door.  She recoiled only slightly at the stench coming from inside, and Dawn was impressed.

            Darla shut the door.  "For God's sake," she said.  "This is disgusting.  What, have you been drinking since you left?"

            "No," Spike said, hauling himself to his feet and feeling so awful he toppled back over again.  "Since before then."

            "Still over Buffy."

            "Bloody cow," he slurred.  "I loved her.  You understand?  I sodding _loved_ her."

            "Do you still love her?" Darla asked.

            "No," Spike said, but he didn't sound very convincing.

            She sighed and looked for somewhere to sit down.  There was nowhere.  All the flat surfaces were covered with bottles and sticky circles of alcohol.  "Look, I wasn't going to tell you this, but... All right.  Buffy had news in that letter that - Spike, are you falling asleep?  _Spike_!"

            It took Darla and Dawn a while to get him sober enough to understand what Darla had to say, but once she'd told him about Snyder and his army, and what she and Angel had worked out about Buffy's stupid, stupid plan, he was stone cold sober.

            With the worst hangover in the world.

            He stumbled onto a horse and when he looked back down at the ground, it seemed very far away.

            "Darla," he said before he rode out of his stableyard.

            She looked impatient.  "Yes?"

            "Why are you telling me this?"

            Her eyes shifted away.  "I'm getting soft," she muttered.  "Must be motherhood."

            Spike and Dawn stared at her.

            "Yes, I'm pregnant," she snapped.  "I came up here to ask if you wanted to be godfather.  But now I'm not sure if I want my child to have a drunken outlaw for a godfather."

            "Why not?" Dawn said.  "He has one for a father."

            Spike was laughing as he rode away.

            It was hell, because his hangover lasted for two days, and halfway through the second one it started raining and didn't stop for another seventy-two hours.  He'd lost count of the days and nights when he found himself in the nearest town to the Summers plantation and saw a poster with his face on it, tacked up against a tree.

            He changed direction, checked his pistol, and asked the first person he saw for directions to Snyder's house.

            When Snyder answered the door, Spike blew his brains out.

            Then he rode back out of town, pulling off his mask and letting it flutter to the ground as he rode.  Buffy's house swam into view, blurring through his tired eyes, and he got to the front door, spied Anya talking to a dark man, and fell off his horse.

            He woke to shouting, and winced.

            "I'm tired, I'm dirty, I'm still hungover, and I'm tired," he said.  "Can we have less shouting, please?"

            Then a voice, still far away but close enough to recognise - he'd always recognise it - said, "_Spike_?" and he opened his eyes.

            There was Buffy, pushing through the press of people around him, looking divinely pretty in a sprigged muslin dress and a wide-brimmed hat, looking down at him in amazement.

            "Hello, pet."

            He tried to sit up, but every muscle he had complained, so he stayed where he was and moaned, "I think I'm dying."

            "Oh God," Buffy said.  "Fetch the doctor-"

            "No," he grabbed her skirt as she turned away.  "I'm fine.  Stay here.  I'm fine."

            She turned back and looked down at him, shading her eyes.  "Spike?"

            Anya looked around and said, "All right, everyone, get back to work.  Leave them."  Her voice was steely, and Spike spared a smile in her direction as she shepherded everyone away.

            Buffy flopped down, straddling him, and grabbed his dusty shirt front to pull him upright and give him the sweetest kiss in the world.

            Then she let him fall back with a thud.

            "You complete idiot," she said, "don't you know the whole colony is out looking for you?  Snyder will-"

            "Snyder's dead," Spike said, rubbing his head, which hurt, like the rest of him.

            "He's what?"

            "If not, then he'll have a hell of a time finding a wig to cover up that big hole in his head."

            Buffy stared.

            "Darla told me," he said, and she slumped in defeat.  "And I think you're a bloody _simpleton_ for trying something like that on me."

            "Worked, didn't it?"

            "Until the rum wore off and I realised the only time you'd ever played me was when you said you were playing me."

            Buffy looked sulky.  "You believed me."

            "You were good," he admitted, and then he grinned at her and shifted his hips where she was sitting on him.  "But I'm better."

            Buffy sucked in her breath and looked down at him warningly.  "Not here."

            "You're the one who's sitting on me, love."  He reached up and pulled her down to him, leaving dirty marks all over her pretty dress, but Buffy didn't seem to care as she kissed him as hard as he was kissing her.

            "God, I've missed you," she sighed.

            He touched a loose curl of blonde hair.  "Tell me you didn't mean it."

            "Any of it.  It was all to make you hate me."

            "Oh, I do, pet," he said, and she stared.  "Almost as much as I love you.  It's just the other side of the coin.  I need you, Buffy.  Half an hour apart and I can't finish my sentences.  I was like a bloody shipwreck without you."

            "Can't have been that bad," she said, with feeling.

            "Wanna bet?"  He ran his hand up her leg, under her skirt, and Buffy caught her breath.  "I rode through three days of rain and two days of hangover and a lot of other days and a _lot_ of other nights," he said.  "To see you.  To be with you.  Sod Snyder and his posse.  They can't pin anything on me."

            "They probably-"

            "My son-in-law is the slipperiest lawyer there ever was," Spike said.  "So if Dawn ever forgives me for being a drunken twat while I didn't have you, then maybe he'll help me out."

            She looked down at him, stroked his cheek, and smiled.  "I'm sorry for what I said."

            "So you bloody should be."  He peered at her, and amended, "I mean, I forgive you."

            She laughed.  "Spike - William-"

            "Spike, please."

            Yes, Spike please, Buffy thought, and said,  "I never loved anyone but you.  Not ever."

            "You love me now?"

            "And always."

            He kissed her again, and only stopped when she pulled back, hearing her name called.

            "Buffy?  Buffy!"

            She sat up, belatedly realising that she was sitting on top of a dusty, hot man on her own front path.

            "Erm..." she turned, and saw one of her neighbours coming up the path, maid in tow, basket in hand.  Kathy.  Buffy tried not to shudder.

            "Buffy, whatever are you doing?"

            Buffy looked up and gave Kathy her brightest smile.  "Kathy, this is William.  My husband."

            Spike stared at her, and then he raised his hand for Kathy to shake.  She did, looking faint, and when he released her gloved palm she wiped it on her skirt.

            "William...?" she looked down her nose at him as if expecting Buffy not to know his surname.

            "Darling," Buffy supplied, and grinned, adding, "_My_ darling."

            She went back to kissing him, ignoring Kathy who eventually ran away, ignoring the servants who stood and laughed, ignoring Xander and Anya who got inspired and ran upstairs to their bedroom.

            And when she'd finished kissing him, he looked up and said, "About that husband thing..."

            "Hmm?"

            "You didn't... mean it, did you?"

            "Oh, no," Buffy said.  "I think I'd prefer to live in sin, wouldn't you?"

            He looked at her, frowned, and said, "You've been holding up coaches, haven't you?"

            She blushed.  "Maybe one or two..."

            Spike laughed delightedly.  "That's my girl."

            Yes, Buffy thought.  Your girl.  "Anya's fallen in love with this place," she said.  "She runs it better than I ever could.  So, I was thinking..."

            "Hmm?"

            "Staying in one place is so _boring_..."

            "It can be, pet."

            "How about we take to the roads..."

            "Self-funding?"

            She grinned.  "I was thinking..." She trailed her fingers along his cheekbones.  "Ho about going out west?  Undiscovered country.  Lots of Spaniards to rob.  Frenchmen too."

            "How far out west?" Spike asked guardedly.

            "As far as we can go.  To California," Buffy waved her arms expansively.  "Let's conquer the west."

            Spike looked up at her and wondered if there was anything he could refuse her.  "All right, but I just have to ask one thing of you first…?"

            Thinking he was going to beg for sleep or food, she nodded.

            Spike sat up.  "Stand and deliver!"

            She laughed then, and he laughed too, and then she wriggled forwards and kissed him.  "Well," she said, "if you insist."

**The End**

_So how was that?  Happy with the ending?  Surprised?  Annoyed?  Want to know what my next great scheme will be?  Answers on a postcard, please.  Or a review form, whichever takes your fancy_


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